My sister announced in the family group chat that I was officially banned from the reunion and she made it clear no one was to tell me where it would be. I didn’t argue. I didn’t reply. I simply opened the location pin… and laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth.

I don’t mind the stifling heat because it keeps me sharp and alert. It reminds me that I am very much real and present, even though the people currently hauling designer bags into my beach house have spent the last month acting as if I had been deleted from the family history.

Through the windshield, I watch the caravan of vehicles arrive in slow stages. Three massive SUVs roll onto the crushed-white-stone driveway of the three-story beach house that stands pale cream against the Atlantic horizon.

The siding catches the afternoon sun in a bright wash of coastal color, while the white railings flash with an expensive, clean brilliance. Beyond the house, the sea oats are swaying gently on the dunes, and further still, the ocean glitters like a sheet of crushed sapphires.

The property looks exclusive and incredibly pricey. It looks like the kind of estate people in high-end magazines inherit from ancestors with old money and very private secrets. It also looks, with painful accuracy, like exactly the kind of place my family believes they are entitled to occupy.