I grip my water glass tighter, my knuckles whitening as Marissa’s words hang in the air between us.
“So next week, I’ll be moving into your place,” she says with a casual smile, like she’s announcing a switch to almond milk or a new jogging routine. “Just until I figure things out.”
Beside me, a bottle of champagne pops open. My father beams as he pours the bubbling liquid into crystal flutes I’ve never seen before. My mother’s china—the set she only brings out for Thanksgiving and Christmas—gleams beneath the chandelier light.
The table arrangement should have been my first clue that something was happening.
Marissa is seated at the head of the table. The place settings are formal. The champagne has been chilling. This isn’t Sunday dinner.
It’s an ambush.
“I’ve already started packing,” Marissa continues, accepting a flute from Dad with a gracious nod. “It shouldn’t take more than a day to get everything moved in.”
My parents exchange pleased glances across the table, nodding as if this is the most reasonable plan in the world. As if my consent is a formality already taken care of.
“To new beginnings,” my father says, raising his glass.
Everyone lifts theirs in response.
Everyone except me.
The boxes in my garage make sense now. Three days ago, I found them stacked against the wall—oversized plastic tubs labeled Marissa’s Winter Clothes and Marissa’s Books. When I texted her about them, she brushed it off.
“Just temporary storage,” she said. “Just until I found more space in my apartment.”
I should have known.
Just like I should have known what it meant when I confronted my parents about paying Marissa’s rent for the third time this year.
“She’s going through a rough patch,” Mom had said, waving away my concern. “That’s what family does. We help each other.”
I hear my mother’s voice from last week, the phone call I wasn’t supposed to overhear while I stood in her kitchen waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
“Eden is so lonely in that big house,” she’d told Aunt Sarah. “She needs her sister’s company. It’s perfect timing, really.”
Perfect timing.
As if my life exists solely to accommodate Marissa’s latest crisis.
I set my water glass down carefully and reach for my purse on the floor beside me. The trembling in my hands has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with fury.
“Why do you look so serious?” Marissa asks with a laugh, her eyes darting briefly to our parents. “This is good news for both of us. You get company, and I get to save on rent for a while.”
My fingers close around the manila envelope I brought with me—the one I almost left in the car because I thought tonight wasn’t the right time.
But there is no right time with my family.
There is only their time, their plans, their expectations.
The tremor in my hands steadies as I place the envelope on the table.
“Actually,” I say, my voice calmer than I feel, “I have news too.”
My parents’ expressions shift instantly.
My mother’s smile falters, her eyes narrowing slightly. My father lowers his champagne glass, his forehead creasing with concern. The change is subtle but unmistakable, the united front forming against the daughter who isn’t following the script.
“What kind of news?” my mother asks, her tone carrying a warning.
Don’t ruin this. Don’t be difficult.
I can feel the familiar labels gathering in the air around me.
Selfish. Difficult. Uncaring.
