It was an invitation to Lauren’s rescheduled engagement party.
Same tone, same flowery language, different venue.
This time, a fancy hotel ballroom downtown.
And right there in the center of the letter, printed in bold Sarif font:
“Hosted with love by the Carter family, especially Aunt Carol, our event angel.”
I stared at those words for a long time.
No mention of me, no acknowledgement, nothing about the vineyard or the party that had imploded because of me.
According to this letter, the first one never even happened.
It wasn’t just insulting.
It was deliberate.
Rewriting the story, erasing the parts that didn’t flatter them, like they were brushing dust off a rug, and pretending the floor was spotless all along.
Attached was a small RSVP card, no box to check for plus one, just a blank line for my name, and a check box next to “will attend.”
It was almost funny.
They actually expected me to show up.
Part of me wanted to toss the whole thing in the trash and forget it.
But another part, the part that remembered how I’d stood on that patio invisible until I stopped playing the game, knew better.
No, this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
I didn’t RSVP.
Not right away.
Instead, I waited.
I wanted to see what they’d do next.
By Friday, the call started.
The first was from my cousin Emma.
“Hey,” she drawled, the fake sweetness almost painful. “Just wanted to check in. Did you get the invite? Lauren’s so excited. She’s like really hoping you’ll come this time.”
This time, like the first time was some shared hallucination.
I stayed polite.
“Got the invite. Haven’t decided.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, okay. Cool. Well, let us know. Aunt Carol really worked hard on this one, you know.”
I let that hang in the air.
“Sure,” I said, then hung up.
The next call came from Uncle Rick.