I always start my morning slow. A cup of coffee in my favorite ceramic mug, the one with the small crack near the handle I never bother to replace. The kitchen window lets in just enough sun to make the granite counters gleam. My husband, Lyall, had already left for a client meeting, leaving behind a trail of aftershave and a half-eaten banana. I was scrolling through my phone, mostly out of habit, thumbing through emails and calendar alerts, when I noticed a post from my niece, a boomerang, those looping video snippets of a champagne toast, clinking glasses, a yacht in the background. The caption read, “Family getaway tradition loading. Can’t wait to set sail.”

My thumb froze mid-scroll. The annual family yacht trip. It had been a Preston family tradition for years, one I had been invited to exactly twice since marrying Lyall. The first time I made the mistake of suggesting we rotate destinations. The second time, Valora, my sister-in-law, made it painfully clear I was a guest, not family.