I sat down slowly.
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Kevin…”
“Actually, we’re bringing Mom too. Maybe a couple of Patrice’s relatives. It’ll be fun.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“How many people?”
A short laugh.
“Don’t make it sound like a big deal.”
“Kevin.”
“Eleven.”
I waited for him to laugh.
He didn’t.
“We’re staying two weeks,” he added. “You’ll love having everyone there. You can cook some of those recipes you’re always making. The kids can run around outside. It’ll be like old times.”
Old times.
That phrase always bothered me.
Because when my family talked about old times, they remembered the laughter.
They never remembered who cleaned up afterward.
Who washed the dishes.
Who slept on uncomfortable beds so guests could have the bedrooms.
Who woke up early to make breakfast while everyone else rested.
I had spent my whole life being the person who made memories possible for everyone else.
And somehow, nobody noticed I wasn’t in the memories.
“Kevin,” I said carefully, “that doesn’t work for me.”
Silence.
Then confusion.
Like I had spoken another language.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not hosting eleven people for two weeks.”
He laughed again.
Not because it was funny.
Because he thought I was joking.
“Ellie, come on.”
“No.”
The word felt strange coming out of my mouth.
Small.
Simple.
Powerful.
“No,” I repeated.
The silence on the other end became heavier.
“Mom is going to be upset.”
“I understand.”
“Patrice is going to think you’re being selfish.”
“I understand.”
“And the kids will be disappointed.”
That one almost worked.
Almost.
Because I loved those kids.
But then I remembered something.
Children learn what adults teach them.
And I didn’t want Madison, Tyler, and June growing up believing that love meant one person always sacrificed while everyone else took.
“I love the kids,” I said. “But the answer is still no.”
Kevin’s voice changed.
The friendly brother disappeared.
“Wow.”
Just one word.
But I knew that tone.
The tone people use when you stop playing the role they assigned you.
“I guess buying a cabin changed you.”
I looked around my small office.
At my worn shoes under the desk.
At the coffee I had forgotten to drink.
At the schedule filled with people who needed something from me.
“No,” I said quietly.
