My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.

For years I told myself that love and restraint were the same thing, believing there might be a version of family worth salvaging. “Because I was trying very hard not to become someone like you,” I said as the silence followed my words.

The sound of the rope clinking against the old aluminum flagpole was the only thing I could hear. Cassandra let out an incredulous sound and shook her head behind her sunglasses.

“Oh my God, you are being so dramatic right now,” Cassandra said. I turned to her and remembered the message she had sent me the night before.

“Last night you texted me that I was never really a part of this family,” I reminded her. She folded her arms over her chest and stood her ground.

“You weren’t because you chose to leave and stay away,” she argued. “I moved to Philadelphia for my career, and that is not the same thing as joining a witness protection program,” I replied.

“You stopped showing up to the things that mattered,” she snapped. “I stopped showing up to dinners where your mother turned every conversation about my actual mother into a correction exercise,” I said.