A message appeared in our family group chat, usually reserved for Easter greetings and blurry casserole pictures.
From Dad.
They’d decided to celebrate at a restaurant. Adults only.
No apology.
Not even punctuation.
At first, I assumed it was a joke.
Ava had just removed sugar-free pear tarts from the oven for Grandma’s diabetic neighbor.
She was humming.
I stepped into the hallway, pretending to take a call.
I simply needed my hands to stop shaking.
I reread the message.
They’d decided.
Not Dad alone.
All of them.
I called
