Chapter 3 - The Screenshot

I ended the call before anyone could rewrite what Vanessa had said.

My hand shook once.

Just once.

Then I placed the phone face down.

The strange thing about getting hurt by the same people for years is that eventually the pain changes shape.

At first, it feels sharp.

Later, it becomes familiar.

Then one day it becomes information.

“At least people wanted to celebrate me.”

Information.

That was what I had now.

Not a mystery.

Not a misunderstanding.

A fact.

I poured the rest of my champagne into the glass and forced myself to eat one piece of salmon nigiri.

My phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

By the sixth vibration, I flipped it over.

Fourteen messages.

Three from Mom.

Two from Dad.

Five from Vanessa.

Four from a group chat I had muted months earlier.

FAMILY CHRISTMAS.

I almost didn’t open it.

Then I saw the preview.

AUNT CAROL: I think Emily has every right to take a trip for her birthday.

Interesting.

I opened the thread.

Mom had posted a screenshot of my Tokyo photo with one line beneath it.

MOM: This is what we woke up to. No warning. No invitation. Nothing.

No invitation?

I read it twice.

Then Aunt Carol replied.

AUNT CAROL: Linda, it’s her birthday trip, not a family evacuation plan.

My cousin Nate added a laughing emoji.

Dad wrote:

DAD: Let’s not turn this into something bigger than it is.

And then Vanessa entered.

VANESSA: Easy for everyone to judge when you don’t know the whole story.

I typed before I could stop myself.

ME: Great. Tell the whole story.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Then vanished.

Then appeared again.

Vanessa finally wrote:

VANESSA: You always make everything about favoritism.

I stared at the sentence.

Then typed:

ME: Tell them what Mom and Dad planned for my birthday this year.

No response.

Aunt Carol:

AUNT CAROL: What did they plan?

Silence.

Then Mom private-messaged me.

MOM: Stop this right now.

I switched back to the group.

ME: Or I can.

Dad called.

I declined.

ME: Nothing. They planned nothing.

Another message came from Mom immediately.

MOM: That is not fair. We were going to have cake on Christmas Eve.

I took a screenshot.

There are moments when an entire family dynamic can be reduced to one image.

That was mine.

My twenty-seventh birthday.

A “cake on Christmas Eve.”

Meanwhile, I still had the invitation to Vanessa’s last birthday saved in my email.

Three-day lake house weekend.

Private chef.

Champagne wall.

Dress code.

Photographer.

I attached the old invitation to the group chat.

No caption.

The thread went silent.

Then my aunt wrote:

AUNT CAROL: Linda... wow.

My phone rang again.

Not Mom.

Not Dad.

Not Vanessa.

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It was my grandmother.

And unlike everyone else, she never called unless she had something important to say.