Not because anything was funny.
Because my body had reached for the expression it always used when something hurt in public.
“I’m aware.”
Nora turned the phone facedown.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
That was another habit.
Never disrupt dinner.
Never create discomfort.
Never make everyone else rearrange an evening because your feelings showed up unexpectedly.
So we stayed.
Nora’s friend told a story about a disastrous apartment move.
Someone argued about whether oat milk counted as milk.
Another person talked about getting engaged in Cabo.
I nodded in the right places.
I laughed when everyone else laughed.
Then, about ten minutes later, I stood.
“Bathroom.”
Nora looked at me.
“You want tea?”
“I’m fine.”
She knew I wasn’t.
She let me go anyway.
The hallway outside the restroom was narrow and washed in yellow light.
Inside, the room smelled like lavender soap and hairspray.
I locked the door.
Then I sat on the edge of the sink counter because my legs suddenly did not feel useful.
I opened Instagram.
Silvia’s stories were still active.
Breakfast by the lake.
Children running across grass.
My brothers grilling.
My sisters drinking coffee on a terrace.
Dad playing guitar beside a firepit.
Mom dancing slowly beneath string lights.
A photograph of embroidered caps.
A video of everyone singing.
A table with custom mugs.
A printed weekend schedule.
This had not been casual.
Nobody had called a restaurant the night before and hoped one hundred eighteen people could fit.
There had been deposits.
Reservations.
A family group chat.
Shirt sizes.
Name badges.
Room assignments.
Food counts.
Someone had hired a drone.
I kept scrolling.
One story said:
THREE DAYS TO RECONNECT.
Another:
FAMILY MEANS ALWAYS FINDING YOUR WAY BACK.
I stared at that one until the letters blurred.
Then the tears came.
Quietly.
Not dramatic crying.
Not sobbing.
Just tears that appeared before I could tell them not to.
I remembered the phone call with Mom.
There isn’t enough room for everyone this year.
Very small.
Don’t worry.
Another time.
I had believed her because believing her hurt less than asking why.
The worst part was that this was not new.
When I was ten, there had been a cousin’s birthday at a rented pool house.
Mom told me the car was full.
I stayed with an aunt.
At fifteen, I found out my siblings had spent a weekend together at a cabin in Big Bear.
Nobody invited me.
At nineteen, I helped Mom iron matching shirts for another reunion.
I sorted sizes.
Folded shirts.
Stuffed candy into welcome bags.
Then, the morning everyone left, Mom said there had been a misunderstanding about transportation.
I stayed home.
Years later, I still remembered standing in the driveway holding an extra tote bag.
What embarrassed me now was not that they had excluded me again.
It was that some part of me had still expected them not to.
There was a knock.
“Clara?”
Nora.
I wiped my face.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Something didn’t agree with me.”
A pause.
“Do you want me to order tea?”
“No. Thanks.”
“I’m right outside if you need me.”
That almost made me cry harder.
Not because Nora had said anything profound.
Because she had noticed.
I waited until I heard her walk away.
Then I turned on the faucet.
Cold water.
Paper towel.
My mascara had smudged slightly beneath one eye.
I tried fixing it.
The paper towel tore and stuck to my cheek.
I stared at myself.
Then I laughed.
Softly.
Because apparently even crying required troubleshooting.