My sister dumped a glass of wine all over my six-year-old son’s birthday artwork while the room filled with laughter. Mom rushed to protect the tablecloth—not my child. I said nothing, until my dad suddenly stood up, removed his wedding ring, and let it fall into the pool of red. Then he pulled out a leather notebook he’d kept hidden for years… and ten minutes later…

By the time the first drop of wine hit the paper, I already had a headache.

The cabin was too warm, the kind of heavy, stale warmth that smelled like old wood, leftover gravy, and the ghosts of a thousand arguments no one ever acknowledged. The ceiling fan hummed lazily above us, pushing the same tired air around, rattling a loose chain every few seconds. Outside, the lake was a sheet of dull silver under the bruised sky, Labor Day weekend pressing at the windows in the form of distant boat motors and the occasional shout from the neighboring dock.\

Inside, our family did what it always did best: pretended.