My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

That evening, my phone buzzes. Paige has added me to a group chat. Vivian, Harold, Paige, and now me.

The first message is a preview of the slideshow.

I watch the images load.

The Lindon family. And then there’s Thea. Old photos of me stretched and filtered to look unflattering. Cartoon stickers slapped across them. And then the labels, one per slide, bold and centered: high school dropout, divorced, broke, alone, infertile.

Paige types beneath the preview:

“OMG, this is going to be hilarious. Don’t worry, Thea. It’s all in good fun.”

Vivian responds,

“Keep it tasteful, Paige.”

She doesn’t say, Take it down. She doesn’t say, This is wrong. She says, Keep it tasteful.

As if there’s a tasteful way to broadcast your daughter’s medical history to 200 strangers.

Harold doesn’t respond at all.

I screenshot every message, send them to Marcus without comment. Then I open my laptop. My own presentation is still up. Five clean, factual slides.

I add one more, a sixth, a quote, white text on black:

The measure of a family is not how they celebrate their best, it’s how they treat their most vulnerable.

I stare at the word infertile on my phone screen for a long time. Then I close the group chat.