I opened last year’s vacation photo from Miami. Nolan with his arm around his brother. His mother centered in a bright dress. His father beside her. His cousin and his brother’s girlfriend on the other side. Seven smiling faces in front of the ocean.
I remembered that week. I stayed home with a fever while Nolan said he “couldn’t change the reservations.” He called me once, told me to take something for the fever, then hung up quickly because “the reception was bad.”
My phone lit up: video call from Renee.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my arm and answered.
“You will not believe the nightmare client we had today,” she began, then stopped. “Why do you look like that? Your eyes are swollen.”
“I was cutting onions,” I lied. “It’s nothing.”
“Lauren,” she said, her tone turning firm. “We’ve been friends for twelve years. What did Nolan do now?”
The dam inside me cracked. I told her everything: the trip, the third time being left behind, the group chat messages, my dinner in the trash.
“I feel like an extra,” I whispered. “Someone they keep in the background.”
“No,” she said sharply. “The extra is your husband’s conscience. Those people don’t treat you like family.”
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