I found out about the family reunion through Facebook.

Not from my mother. Not from my younger sister, Paige. Not from any aunt, cousin, or family group chat I had apparently been removed from months earlier. Just a cheerful photo of my mother standing in front of a rented lakeside lodge in northern Michigan, captioned: Can’t wait for the whole family to be together this weekend!

I sat in my apartment in Grand Rapids staring at the post for a long time, my coffee going cold in my hand. Then I did what I always did when my family made their point without saying it outright: I stopped expecting dignity from them and started thinking practically.

The reunion was happening near Blackwater Lake, where cottages lined the shore in a patchwork of old money, inherited grudges, and carefully maintained summer politeness. My grandfather used to take us fishing there before he died. After he passed, my mother, Linda Mercer, treated memory like property—something she could assign, ration, and give to whichever child pleased her most. That child was always Paige.

Paige was two years younger, louder, softer when observed, crueler when believed, and gifted at collapsing into tears whenever consequences approached. My mother called her “sensitive.” I called her dangerous in cashmere.

So when I saw the reunion post and realized I had been deliberately excluded again, I didn’t call. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask for an invitation.

I called a realtor.