“I’ve also spent all week waiting for one of you to ask.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“What would you have said if I asked?”
“No.”
“Exactly. So what was the point?”
The honesty of the question stopped me.
He did not believe asking mattered if he disliked the answer.
Mom entered the room carrying a tray of cookies.
“What is going on?”
“Sophie is suddenly claiming she never agreed.”
“I didn’t.”
Mom placed the tray down too quickly. One cookie slid against another.
“You heard us talk about the schedule.”
“Yes.”
“You took the grocery list.”
“Yes.”
“You accepted Grace’s things.”
“Sarah put them in my room.”
“You never said no.”
“You never asked.”
The room changed.
Sarah appeared in the hallway. Dad looked up from his chair. Even Connor became still.
Mom’s expression tightened.
“Fine. Sophie, will you watch the children?”
“No.”
Sarah inhaled sharply.
Mom’s eyes narrowed.
“You cannot say no now.”
“You just asked.”
“After allowing everyone to rely on you.”
“You relied on an assumption.”
Mark folded his arms.
“This is exactly the kind of drama I was talking about.”
I looked from one face to another.
My flight left in less than twelve hours. I could tell them now. I could end the uncertainty and watch them scramble for alternatives.
But I remembered the kitchen conversation.
We’ll just tell her she has to.
They had known I was exhausted. They had known I might object. Their plan was built on waiting until refusal became inconvenient.
If I announced my trip, they would spend the night pressing me to cancel it. Mom would cry. Sarah would remind me that the tickets were nonrefundable. Mark would accuse me of abandoning the children. Dad would ask whether I could postpone the flight.
I would be forced to defend a decision that needed no defense.
So I picked up one of the cookies.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”
Mom stared at me.
“This conversation is not over.”
“I know.”
I walked upstairs.
At four the next morning, the house was dark.
Rain had turned to a thin crust of ice across the driveway. My breath showed in the garage as I lifted my suitcase into the trunk. I closed the car door carefully, backed out without turning on the radio, and watched my parents’ house shrink in the rearview mirror.
No one came to the window.
At the airport, garlands hung above the check-in counters. Travelers slept across rows of chairs while holiday music played softly through ceiling speakers. I checked my bag, passed through security, and ordered coffee from a nearly empty café.
At 5:21, Mom sent the first message.
Where are you?
I did not answer.
At 5:28:
Your car is gone.
At 5:34:
Sophie, call me immediately.
I turned my phone face down.
Boarding began at six.
As I stepped into the plane, Mark called. Then Sarah. Then Mom again.
I switched the phone to airplane mode before taking my seat.
The flight attendant offered orange juice or a mimosa. I chose the mimosa, though I rarely drank in the morning. The glass was cold between my fingers.
The plane moved toward the runway.
Outside, gray clouds covered Portland. Rain streaked across the window while the terminal lights blurred in the distance.
As the plane lifted, my stomach tightened.
For one breathless moment, guilt arrived with full force.
Seven children would wake expecting me.
My parents’ house would become loud and crowded.
My family’s expensive plans would collapse.
Then I remembered Sarah’s typed schedule on the dresser.
Midnight. Three. Sometimes five.
I remembered Mark asking what the point of permission was if I might say no.
I remembered my mother laughing beneath the heating vent.
My guilt did not disappear.
It simply stopped being the deciding voice.
By the time we crossed into bright morning sunlight above the clouds, I felt lighter than I had in years.
I landed in Cabo shortly after nine.
Warm air entered the jet bridge through an open doorway, carrying the scent of sun-heated pavement and distant ocean salt. Travelers removed jackets as they walked. I turned off airplane mode while waiting for my suitcase.
The screen filled immediately.
Fourteen missed calls from Mom.
Six from Mark.
Four from Sarah.
Two from Dad.
The family group chat contained seventy-one unread messages.
Mom: Where are you?
Mark: Answer your phone.
Sarah: The children are here.
Mom: We need to leave in an hour.
Mark: This is not funny.
Sarah: Grace is crying and I left half her bottles at your parents’ house because you were supposed to handle them.
Dad: Please call before this gets worse.
Then the newest message appeared.