“There’s just no room for you, Georgia. You understand, right?”
My mother’s voice was light, almost cheerful, as if she were telling me about the weather rather than excluding me from yet another family vacation. I stood in my kitchen in Denver, phone pressed to my ear, feeling that familiar tightness spread across my chest.
“The house in Hawaii only has four bedrooms,” she continued. “Your father and I need one, obviously. Then there’s your sister and Brian, and the kids each need their own space now that they’re getting older. You know how McKenzie gets when she has to share with her brother.”
My name is Georgia, and I am 27 years old. I work as a regional sales director for a medical equipment distribution company, a position I fought tooth and nail to earn over the past 5 years. I live alone in a modest apartment. I pay my own bills. And until that moment, I had still harbored some foolish hope that my family saw me as more than an afterthought.
“What about the couch?” I heard myself ask, hating the desperation that crept into my voice. “Or I could get a hotel nearby and just meet up with everyone during the day.”
My mother sighed, that long-suffering sound she had perfected over the years.
“Honey, that would just be awkward. Besides, the whole point is family bonding time. If you’re staying somewhere else, it defeats the purpose.”
I wanted to scream that excluding me entirely defeated the purpose even more. But I had learned long ago that arguing with my mother was like trying to hold water in my hands. Everything I said simply slipped through her fingers, unacknowledged and unremembered.
“We’re also doing Lake Tahoe in February,” she added, as if offering me a consolation prize. “Maybe by then we can figure something out.”
“How many bedrooms does that house have?”
A pause.
“Five. But your sister invited her in-laws this time. You know how close she is with Brian’s parents. They’re practically family.”
Practically family, unlike me, her actual daughter.
“Right,” I said, my voice flat. “Well, I hope you all have a wonderful time.”
“Oh, we will. I’ll send you pictures. And Georgia, maybe you should start saving up for your own vacation. You work so hard. You deserve a nice getaway.”
After she hung up, I stood motionless in my kitchen for what felt like an hour. The evening light was fading through my window, casting long shadows across the countertops. I thought about calling her back, about demanding to know why my sister Vivien and her family always came first, why there was always room for everyone except me. But I already knew the answer, even if no one in my family would ever say it out loud.
Vivien was the golden child. She had given my parents grandchildren. She had married a successful orthodontist and lived in a beautiful house in the suburbs. She hosted holiday dinners and remembered everyone’s birthdays and did all the things a good daughter was supposed to do.
I, on the other hand, had committed the unforgivable sin of being single, childless, and focused on my career.
I walked to my refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine, pouring myself a generous glass. As I took the first sip, I noticed the notification on my phone, an email from my company’s human resources department. I opened it without much thought, expecting some routine update about benefits or policy changes.
Instead, my eyes widened as I read the subject line:
Year-end performance bonus distribution.
My heart began to pound as I scrolled down. I had known bonuses were coming, but I had expected maybe 10 or 15,000 dollars based on my sales numbers. I had exceeded my targets by a significant margin this year, but the economy had been unpredictable, and I had tempered my expectations accordingly.
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