“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.”
