Instead, later that afternoon, my mother uploaded a photograph from the beach.
She stood between my father and my brother, Julian, while all three raised colorful cocktails toward a glowing sunset.
The caption beneath the photograph read:
Family is everything.
Ethan had always understood them better than I did.
Once, after my parents pressured me into guaranteeing another one of Julian’s business loans, he said,
“Maya, your family never simply asks for help. They measure how much they can take before you finally say no.”
I should have listened much sooner.
Exactly three days after the funeral, my parents appeared at my front door.
They were still wearing expensive vacation clothes. Their skin was tanned, and they smelled faintly of sunscreen, perfume, and airport-lounge champagne.
Julian stood behind them, scrolling casually through his phone.
My mother did not hug me.
She did not ask how I had slept or whether I had eaten.
