My penthouse was enormous.
It had floor-to-ceiling windows, a private balcony, a sitting area, and a marble bathroom larger than the kitchen in my first apartment.
A chilled bottle of champagne waited beside a welcome card.
"Welcome aboard, Ms. Miller."
I read that simple sentence twice.
Nobody else's name appeared.
I walked onto the balcony.
The ocean stretched out beneath a pale blue sky.
For the first time in years, I had nowhere to rush and nobody to rescue.
I almost cried.
Then my phone vibrated.
It was an email from Brenda.
She wanted to confirm that I had not requested an additional transfer of my penthouse reservation.
Apparently, someone had contacted the agency asking whether the suite could be reassigned to Richard Miller if I failed to board.
The request had been declined.
I stared at the message.
Even after excluding me, they had been trying to take my room.
I replied that I had made no such request and asked Brenda to keep a record of it.
Then I switched off my phone.
I wanted a vacation.
For one beautiful day, I got one.
I ate breakfast overlooking the ocean.
I attended a cooking demonstration.
I watched the sunset from my balcony.
I slept ten uninterrupted hours.
The following evening, I went to the buffet.
I was halfway through a slice of cheesecake when I heard Vanessa's voice.
"This is completely unacceptable!"
I turned.
There they were.
Dad, sixty-one, with his short gray hair and permanent expression of authority.
Mom, fifty-nine, looking exhausted in a floral blouse.
Vanessa, wearing one of the navy shirts I'd purchased.
Brandon, thirty-one, following behind her.
And Uncle Paul, sixty-three, bringing up the rear.
They looked miserable.
Vanessa was complaining about the cabins.
"The room doesn't even have a window!"
Dad muttered something about having paid for luxury.
Mom kept rubbing her temples.
