That afternoon, I heard vehicles coming up the gravel driveway.
My father, Walt.
My mother, Irene.
And my younger sister, Darla.
They walked inside without knocking.
Darla inspected the kitchen as though she already owned it.
Then Dad sat at the table I had built and announced, “Your sister graduates next weekend. We’re having her party here.”
I stared at him.
“Sixty people,” he continued. “Caterer, DJ, tent by the dock. Everything’s arranged.”
“You arranged a sixty-person party at my cabin without asking me?”
Dad’s expression hardened.
Then he said something I would never forget.
“You serve lunch trays at a middle school, Shea. Darla has a real degree and a future. She’s asking for one weekend. Stop making everything about whose name is on a piece of paper.”
He gestured around the cabin I had rebuilt.
“Stay out of the way or leave.”
Darla smiled.
Mom looked away.
I said only, “Fine.”
Then I drove back to town.
But instead of going home, I met my friend Bess.
