I typed back, “The farmhouse is not available for your dinner. Please make other arrangements.”
Sarah chimed in instantly.
“Ignore her, Brenda. She’s just throwing a tantrum because I asked her to help with the catering bill. The patio is fine. I’ll go out there next week and wipe down the furniture myself.”
I set the phone down.
I had stated the facts clearly. I had told Sarah in October. I had told her via text. I had told Brenda in the group chat.
I wasn’t going to drive out there and physically block the driveway.
They were adults determined to live in a reality of their own construction.
On Wednesday, my sister called me.
“Sarah says you’re trying to ruin her wedding by holding the farm hostage.”
“I don’t own the farm,” I replied, folding my laundry.
“Oh, come on, Rachel. Stop proving a point and just let them use the yard.”
“I sold it in November.”
Silence.
“Wait, really?”
“Yes.”
“Does Sarah know?”
“I’ve told her four times.”
My sister sighed.
I knew right then the collision was inevitable.
It started on a Thursday, two days before the wedding.
I was at the grocery store, picking up fresh vegetables, when a number I didn’t recognize popped up on my screen.