We entered through the VIP gate. Evan stared at his wristband as though it were gold. We rode the Cyclone Drop three times. He screamed through the first ride, laughed uncontrollably through the second, and raised both hands on the third. We shared nachos covered in suspiciously orange cheese, drifted around the lazy river, and relaxed in a shaded cabana where Evan announced that the lounge chairs were “basically furniture for kings.”

For the first time in months, I stopped thinking about my family.

Then my phone buzzed.

Lauren.

“Where are you? Mom said you left.”

I took a picture of Evan smiling beside the Cyclone Drop and sent it.

Her answer came instantly.

“YOU’RE AT HARBOR FALLS?”

Then:

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

And finally:

“The kids would’ve loved VIP passes!”

I stared at the screen.

Not one apology.

Not one question about Evan.

Her only concern was that her children hadn’t received something special too.

I placed the phone facedown.

Then my banking app sent me a notification.

Someone had attempted to use the fuel card connected to the account I used for Lauren’s gasoline.

I opened the app.

For almost two years, I had been paying her fuel expenses. She first asked for help after her hours at work were supposedly reduced.

“Just until I’m back on my feet,” she promised.

Initially, I sent money directly. Then Mom suggested that I add Lauren as an authorized user on a separate gas card.

“It’ll make everything easier,” she said.

So I did.

The first month cost $280.

The second was nearly $400.

Eventually, the total regularly approached $600 a month.

Whenever I questioned the amount, Lauren reminded me that she had three children.

“School, groceries, appointments. You know how expensive driving is.”

Mom always defended her.

“It’s for the children, Natalie.”

I looked across the cabana at Evan, who was arranging French fries from shortest to longest.

Then I opened the card controls.

Lauren’s card.

Deactivate.

I pressed the button.

For the first time in twenty-two months, my sister would have to pay for her own gasoline.

Three hours later, my phone started ringing.

Lauren.

I ignored it.

She called again.

Then Mom called.

Then Lauren sent a message.