It had been far too long since my family had come together without rushing through a meal, glancing at watches, or disappearing into errands before dessert. For years now, “family gatherings” had been more like quick check-ins — brief encounters with polite smiles and safe topics.
So when my sister, Susan, called to invite us to her estate for an afternoon by the pool, I felt a cautious hope stir in my chest. She said it would be relaxed, just close family and a few friends, nothing too formal. It sounded almost like the old days — the ones where we’d laugh until our sides hurt, swap embarrassing stories, and let the kids run wild in the yard until the sun set.
Greg and I agreed immediately. Our daughter Lily was eight now — bright-eyed, endlessly curious, and a fish in the water since she could walk. She’d been counting down the days to this visit since I told her. “Tiger-lily,” Greg called her, his voice warm with pride.
But if I was honest with myself, there was a thread of unease I couldn’t quite untangle. Ever since Susan married Cooper, her life had shifted into something I hardly recognized — a parade of meticulously planned parties, curated guest lists, and clothes that arrived in branded garment bags. She had a way of speaking now that was careful, deliberate, like she was auditioning for a role she wasn’t entirely sure she’d landed.
The drive to her place was almost cinematic — winding roads lined with towering trees, fields giving way to sprawling gated communities. Lily pressed her nose to the glass as we passed a cluster of mansions, each one seemingly trying to outdo the last with fountains, wrought iron gates, and perfect lawns.
“She’s going to love it,” Greg said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
I smiled, though the knot in my stomach tightened. “I hope Susan remembers what matters,” I murmured.
When the house came into view, it was almost absurdly beautiful — pale stone walls, massive windows, and a pool that glittered in the sun like it had been poured from liquid glass. The kind of place that looked less like a home and more like a backdrop for a magazine spread.
We parked among a neat row of high-end cars. Across the manicured lawn, I spotted Avery and Archie — Susan’s children from her first marriage — racing each other toward the pool, their nanny trailing behind with sunscreen in one hand and juice boxes in the other. Their father had been absent for most of their lives, popping in occasionally before disappearing entirely. Cooper had stepped in to fill that void, and by the looks of it, had embraced the role — though never without a certain air of performance.
Stepping into the garden, I noticed it immediately — there were more of Susan’s new friends here than actual family. We were scattered among the groups like decoration, filling space without quite belonging.
Cooper stood in the center of one circle, glass of whiskey in hand, his voice carrying just enough to make heads turn when he wanted them to. His laugh was deep and measured, the kind that seemed rehearsed for maximum effect.
“Go ahead, say hi,” I told Greg, nodding toward him. Greg kissed my temple before making his way over, slipping easily into their conversation.
Lily was already gazing at the pool like it was calling her by name. “Can I go in?” she asked, her voice bubbling with excitement.
