Sunday was supposed to be about laundry and reclaiming some mental space. I was mid-load, focused on the hum of the machine, when my phone started vibrating against the countertop.
I felt a familiar tightness in my chest when I saw the name on the screen: Mia. My sister usually only appeared in my life like a sudden storm, usually at the worst possible moment to make everything a little bit worse. But a direct call was rare; we hadn't spoken in ages. I let it ring out, hoping she'd just leave a message, but it started up again a second later. She was being persistent, which in our family meant there was a fire she expected me to help put out.
"Hello?" I said, leaning back against the vibrating washer.
"Dad is sick," Mia said. There was no greeting, no "how are you." Just the blunt force of the news. "We need to show up. I'm coming to pick you up in an hour, so be ready."
"Mia, wait, how sick? What happened?" I started to ask, but the line had already gone dead.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the blank screen. I hadn't severed ties with my family, but our relationship was a minefield. To them, I was the walking definition of a failure, The girl who chose a scholarship and art over the "proper" path they'd laid out. Sometimes I wondered if I was adopted, but my parents weren't the type to be generous enough to take in a child... Mia and my mother shared that polished, dark-blonde charm and a certain sharpness in their eyes. I took after my father, at least physically, dark hair, almond eyes, and none of the dimples required to charm people at family galas. I was the black sheep, the disappointment who secretly doodled in the corners of a massive house that never felt like home.
I didn't want to go. Part of me wanted to call my father's office to see if this was just another of Mia's exaggerations, but my calls were usually screened by his secretary anyway. Despite everything, a small, cold knot of worry settled in my stomach. Even if I felt like an outsider, he was still my father.
I sighed and sent a quick text to Charlie, telling her I'd be away for a few days, before firing off emails to my professors. An hour passed in a frantic blur of packing, and when I looked out my fourth-floor window, Mia's grey Porsche was already idling at the curb, gleaming under the sun.
I grabbed my duffle bag and headed down. When I climbed into the passenger seat, Mia lowered her designer sunglasses just enough to scan my outfit. She made a soft clicking sound with her tongue, her lip curling in a way I knew all too well. She looked perfect, manicured nails, heels, and hair that didn't have a single strand out of place. I was in my usual jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers, my nails short and unpolished.
"We're going to be late if you just sit there," she muttered, pulling into traffic before I'd even buckled my seatbelt.
I didn't feel like engaging, so I just watched the city blur past the window. We were about twenty minutes into the journey when I patted my pockets and felt a jolt of pure panic.
"Shit," I whispered, frantically checking my bag. "Mia, I forgot my phone."
She didn't even tap the brakes. "I am not going back for you," she said, her voice flat and final. "It's not like you can't live without it for a few days. You'll survive."
I knew better than to push her. There was no winning with her, If I made us miss the flight, I'd never hear the end of it. I sat in frustrated silence until we reached the airport, where a private attendant was already waiting for us.
Getting out of the car, I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed her onto the plane, feeling a strange sense of dread. As the cabin door hissed shut, I realized I was facing a six-hour flight with nothing but my sister's judgment and my own anxious thoughts. I had no way to tell anyone where I was going, or why I had suddenly disappeared.