White-sand beaches, infinity pools, a five-star restaurant, and rooms that started at $800 per night. It was exactly the kind of place my family loved to flaunt their success.
I’d owned it for 3 years.
They had no idea.
The family reunion invitation had arrived 6 weeks ago, my mother’s elegant handwriting announcing that this year’s gathering would be held at an exclusive coastal resort.
The subtext was clear.
Come prepared to be impressed, and definitely come prepared to feel inadequate.
I arrived on Friday afternoon in my usual style: jeans, a comfortable T-shirt, my trusty Honda Civic pulling into the circular drive behind a parade of Mercedes, BMWs, and Teslas.
The valet gave my car a barely concealed look of disdain before handing me a ticket.
“Enjoy your stay,” he said with the kind of polite dismissal reserved for guests who clearly couldn’t afford the daily parking fee.
I smiled and headed inside.
The lobby was stunning, all soaring ceilings and ocean views, with marble floors that caught the afternoon light.
I’d approved the redesign myself 2 years ago, though my family would never know that.
To them, I was still Emily, the family underachiever with the boring computer job.
“Emily, over here.”
My mother waved from a cluster of chairs near the windows, surrounded by my aunts, uncles, and various cousins.
They’d clearly been there for a while, drinks in hand, already settling into the familiar dynamic of family hierarchy.
“There you are,” Mom said as I approached, her eyes sweeping over my outfit with obvious disappointment. “We’ve been here since noon. The check-in process was impeccable. This place really knows how to treat guests properly.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed, meaning it.
“Isn’t it?” Aunt Sarah chimed in.
She was my mother’s younger sister, always competing to prove her own success.
“Harold and I stayed at a resort in the Bahamas last month that was lovely, but this might actually surpass it.”
“The room rates alone tell you the caliber of guests they attract,” Mom said pointedly. “$800 per night for a standard room. We’re in an ocean-view suite, of course. $2,000 per night.”
“Worth every penny,” Uncle Harold added, swirling his whiskey. “You can’t put a price on quality.”
I took a seat on the edge of the group, already familiar with my role.
The audience. The one who was supposed to be aed by their expensive choices and lavish lifestyle.
“How was your drive down, Emily?” Aunt Carol asked, my mother’s oldest sister.
She at least made an effort to include me in conversations.