So I sat. Alone. At my own table.
I should’ve left then and there. But I didn’t. I told myself maybe it was just some bizarre family ritual. A one-off.
It wasn’t. The next morning, I woke early and headed to breakfast, thinking I’d meet them there. But they weren’t waiting.
I texted Mark—no answer.
I searched for nearly thirty minutes before I spotted them across the courtyard, already halfway through breakfast, laughing and chatting. Like I didn’t exist.
I walked up, puzzled. “Why didn’t you let me know?” I asked. Richard didn’t even make eye contact. “We figured you’d find us,” he said flatly.
Susan sipped her coffee. “It’s just how we do things.”
I looked at Mark. He was eating like everything was normal. That’s when it truly hit me—I wasn’t part of their family. And maybe I never had been.
And Mark? He wasn’t on my side. The rest of the trip followed the same pattern. At every meal, I sat alone.
Every outing, I was left behind. They took a private boat cruise—I found out from their Instagram posts. They went to a wine tasting—I saw them walking out in fancy clothes while I was heading to the lobby.
Later, I confronted Mark.
“You could’ve texted me,” I said, trying not to lose my temper. He let out another tired sigh, like I was the problem.
“It’s just their way,” he said again. That was always his excuse. By day four, I stopped trying.
