The Cousin
My name is Athena Sinclair. I am thirty-four years old, and I flew eighteen hours to attend my sister’s wedding. When I arrived at the venue, my own mother blocked the entrance and told me to leave.
“Only family is allowed,” she said. “You weren’t invited.”
I was standing in the dress I had picked out two months earlier in a boutique in Covent Garden. I was holding the gift I had wrapped on my hotel bed the night before.
I had signed every vendor contract for that wedding. Every single one. My name, my credit card, my deposit paid months ago without a second thought.
Three days later, she called. Not to apologize. She called about a bill.
Let me take you back properly. Last November, my sister Brooke announced her engagement on a Tuesday evening. I was in my London apartment with rain tapping the window when the FaceTime request came through.
Brooke’s face filled the screen, glowing the way people glow when they have genuinely good news and cannot wait to say it. She had gotten engaged the night before at a vineyard. The Caldwell family — Garrett’s family, the largest auto dealership chain in three counties — had already offered their barn venue.
Behind Brooke I could see my mother Diane arranging something on the kitchen counter. When Brooke tilted the phone, Diane leaned into frame and smiled in the way she smiles when she is performing rather than feeling something. “When’s the date?” I asked.
“I’ll start looking at flights.”
There was a pause. Diane glanced at Brooke, then back at me. “Oh, don’t go spending a fortune on a plane ticket.
It’s just a small wedding.”
“Mom, it’s Brooke’s wedding. I’m coming.”
“We’ll see,” she said, and then she straightened up and disappeared from the frame. That should have been the moment I paid more attention to how hard she was working to keep me from coming home.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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