“It’s only for the closest family,” my dad told me as eighty guests boarded my $1.2 million yacht for my brother’s engagement party, while he laughed and thanked me for the free venue. I didn’t argue or beg to be included. I waited until they cleared the harbor, then sent the captain six words—and minutes later, the yacht began turning back toward shore.

At two in the morning, unable to sleep, I drove to the marina.

Second Wind was lit from stern to bow.

Music drifted across the dark water. Weston was aboard practicing part of his toast. Dad stood near him, adjusting a banner that read COLE LEGACY.

Neither of them saw me on the public pier.

For nearly ten minutes, I almost changed my mind.

I imagined walking aboard.

I imagined Weston apologizing.

I imagined Dad finally looking at me and seeing his daughter instead of a useful person who should be fine.

Then I remembered Mom’s photograph packed into storage.

The birthday cake on my passenger seat.

The failed transfer inquiry.

Every time I protected them from the consequences of erasing me, I made it easier for them to do it again.

I opened Weston’s contact and typed:

Tell her tonight and I will forget the rest.

My thumb hovered over the screen.