It was a screenshot of a message from my mother in the extended family chat.
We’re having a small get-together for Lily’s birthday next weekend, it read. Close family only. Please don’t mention anything to Emma; she’s chosen not to be part of this family for now, and we’re respecting her wishes.
My heart did a strange flip.
On one hand, the idea of being deliberately left out of a gathering hurt in a feral, childish way. On the other, the framing—“she’s chosen not to be part of this family”—twisted the knife.
I typed back to Mia.
Wow.
She replied almost immediately.
They’re acting like you moved to Mars, not across town.
I stared at the message, feeling something hot and bitter rise in my chest.
It wasn’t enough for them to punish me by freezing me out. They had to reframe the story, too. Emma withdrew from the family. Emma chose money over love. Emma is the villain.
I thought about replying in the group chat, dropping the receipt of the Instagram comment, the bank statements, the years of “you’ll understand when you have kids.”
Instead, I closed my laptop, grabbed my keys, and did something that surprised even me.
I drove to the travel agency.
People still used them, apparently. There was one in a strip mall near my apartment, wedged between a nail salon and a tax service. Inside, it smelled like old brochures and weak coffee.
The woman at the desk—mid-fifties, with reading glasses perched on her nose—looked up.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I want to book a trip,” I said. My voice shook a little. “To Italy.”
Her eyebrows rose. “When?”
