Not because they were miserable, but because I finally stopped apologizing for not letting them treat me like a wallet with a heartbeat.
That night, I got a knock on my door again.
Not my dad this time.
It was my younger sister, Rachel.
She looked nervous.
She’d always kept her distance when things got tense. Too quiet to pick sides, too scared to make waves.
“I… I didn’t know, Isaac,” she said quietly. “I swear. I thought you backed out. That’s what they told me.”
I leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.
I didn’t say anything.
She held up a canvas tote.
Inside, my crew shirt, still folded, still in its plastic.
“They had this made for you. With the rest, they planned for you to be there.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She swallowed.
“But when I asked why you weren’t in the group chat, mom said he wouldn’t care. He always ruins the vibe.”
There it was.
The part they didn’t expect anyone to repeat.
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then I took the tote bag gently and set it down beside the door.
“I’m not mad at you, Rachel,” I said. “But if you want to stay out of this, stay out of it.”
She gave a sad nod.
“I get it. I do.”
And she left.
I closed the door and locked it.
That night, I did something I hadn’t done in years.
I booked a solo trip just for me.
No group text, no itinerary build around. Who wanted what excursion?
A quiet retreat on the cliffs of Santorini with nothing but a backpack, a camera, and a long overdue sense of freedom.
And as I hit confirm, another message buzzed in from my dad.
One line.
“Please, if you won’t talk to us, at least give us a chance to make this right.”
I didn’t respond.
Not yet.