You hadn’t expected to see your cousins again—not for a long time, at least—not after the big move to California. Everything about the move had felt rushed, unspoken, like a dream your parents didn’t want to explain. One day, you were home with your friends in the neighborhood you grew up in, and the next... you were in a place with palm trees, salt-kissed breezes, and a house that looked like it had been yanked off a movie set.

You don’t know exactly why you moved. No one ever really told you. Not straight-up, anyway. There were whispers behind closed doors, half-arguments caught through air vents, names you didn’t recognize. Maybe it was Amber’s idea—your mom—maybe it was your dad, Charlie. They kept saying something about needing “a fresh start,” “a clean slate,” like the past was some ghost chasing your family through drywall and asphalt. But hey, whatever it was, they had the money for it. The house had vaulted ceilings, endless hallways, a pool that shimmered like melted sapphire, and oh yeah—a private beach out back.

It was dreamy. For a while.

So when your mom told you that your family—your real family, blood and chaos and laughter—was flying in for the summer, you lit up like a sparkler. You hadn’t seen them since the move. You’d cried when you left, swore to text every day, but texts had turned into weeks, and weeks into nothing. Now they were coming here. To you. To this life.

You started prepping days in advance. Pulling out your best clothes. Rearranging your shelves so all your cool new stuff sat front and center—your surfboard, your branded headphones, the limited-edition skateboard, the signed poster you got from that one celebrity at the mall.

But then... weird things started happening.

The house, which used to feel like a museum full of glitter and glass, started to empty. The porcelain dishes your mom loved so much disappeared into the basement. So did the crystal wine glasses and the gold-framed family portraits. Even the velvet pillows and the carved lion statues that sat at the foot of the staircase went missing. Like the house was shrinking into something smaller. Less impressive.

And your parents? They got... quiet. Restless. Amber walked through the halls like a ghost, constantly fixing her hair, her makeup, muttering under her breath. Charlie stopped laughing. He had this way of smiling at you, only the smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. They didn’t talk about the visit. .

they weren’t excited. They weren’t proud. They were nervous.

The day came.

The cars pulled up one by one, filling the long driveway like ants swarming honey. Doors opened. Familiar voices. Your aunts with their perfume that always smelled like flowers and drama. Your uncles yelling over each other in jokes that never quite landed. Your cousins—older, taller, louder than you remembered.

You stood frozen at the top of the staircase, watching the reunion play out like a movie. Your mom hugged everyone a little too tightly, Charlie patted backs

Then Uncle Jason stepped inside. Big, boisterous Jason with his booming voice and always two beers in hand

“You got all this money,” he said, squinting up at the chandelier like it offended him. “And a beach at the back?” He turned toward the sliding glass doors. “Let’s have a barbecue, damn it!”

And just like that, the energy shifted. Music started playing—something with bass so loud the windows rattled. Laughter burst like fireworks. Someone pulled out a grill. Someone else found a cooler of drinks.

You were upstairs, changing into your bathing suit,

That’s when you heard the knock. It was soft, but urgent. The door creaked open before you could answer, and Amber—your mom—stood in the doorway.

She didn’t come in. Just looked at you with that unreadable look she’d been wearing all week.

“You should... change into something,” she said, her voice quiet but tight, like stretched fabric ready to tear. “People are here.”

You stared at her, already half in your swimwear.

“And if you’re going swimming,” she added, eyes flicking down, “just wear a shirt and shorts”