I had driven two hours through it anyway.
Hope will make you do stupid things.
Hope makes you believe a text message might have been misworded. Hope makes you believe your father would never actually decide he didn’t want you at Christmas. Hope makes you drive a familiar route with your chest tight and your mind rehearsing a version of reality where you arrive and everyone laughs and says of course we meant you too.
Three days earlier, I’d woken before sunrise to a group text from my father.
“Christmas dinner is family only this year. Everyone already knows the plan.”
My eyes had read it once, twice, as if repetition would make it change. Family only. Everyone knows. The plan.
Everyone except me.
I’d called him immediately. Straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. A third time, because disbelief is stubborn.
Hours later, one message finally came through.
“Don’t make this difficult, Olivia. We’ve already discussed it.”
Except we hadn’t.
Not a word.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the old, familiar instinct to soften myself already rising. Don’t get emotional. Don’t accuse. Don’t sound needy. Be calm. Be reasonable. Be the daughter who doesn’t create problems.
“Dad,” I typed, “discussed what? I’m flying home on the 23rd.”
