By the time my father stood outside my lake house gate with his finger jammed against the keypad, I already knew the story my family would tell about me.
They would say I was cold.
They would say I had changed.
They would say money had gone to my head, because that was easier than admitting they had spent years treating my life like a spare room.
The truth started at 7:12 on a Thursday morning.
I was standing barefoot in my kitchen in Charlotte, holding coffee that smelled dark and sharp and tasted like nothing because my father’s text had just appeared on my phone.
Your vacation house is perfect for the family reunion. We’re coming next month.
That was it.
No question.
No apology for assuming.
