Dad’s voice changed.
“You moved without telling us?”
“I told you my lease was ending.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
I looked around my apartment.
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
He demanded my address.
I asked:
“Do you remember my old one?”
He did not answer.
“That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
His frustration sharpened.
“This dinner matters for Lucas.”
“I know.”
“It will look bad if you’re missing.”
There it was.
Not:
We miss you.
Not:
Come home.
It will look bad.
“I’m not flying across the country so everyone can pretend we’re close.”
“Delaney.”
“No.”
My voice stayed calm.
“You didn’t notice I moved for six months.”
“We’ve been busy.”
“So have I.”
I ended the call.
Then the messages started.
Mom.
Lucas.
Dad again.
By morning, the family had moved through all the usual stages.
Polite request.
Guilt.
Anger.
Mom finally called.
“It’s one dinner.”
“I know.”
“Smile, stay an hour, and then you can disappear again.”
She said it casually.
Like she had not just summarized the entire problem.