At the beach house, my sister dropped her bags in the largest bedroom and announced, “We already voted. You get the couch. Mom, Todd, and I are taking the bedrooms.”

Then my mother crossed her arms and added,

“You didn’t really contribute anyway.”

I stared at them.

I had booked the house.

Paid the entire rental.

Put the utilities in my name.

And not one of them had given me a dollar.

But instead of arguing, I nodded.

“All right.”

Three minutes later, I made one phone call.

By that evening, they finally understood exactly whose vacation they had been enjoying.

My name is James. I’m twenty-nine, and for as long as I can remember, my family has spent one week every summer at the same beach house on the Carolina coast.

It wasn’t luxurious.

That was part of its charm.

The wooden floors creaked.

The porch wrapped around the house.

From the upper deck, you could watch the ocean stretch almost endlessly toward the horizon.

When I was a kid, my grandparents handled everything.

They booked the place.

Paid for it.

Bought the groceries.