After my miscarriage, I was raw—grieving, alone, and abandoned by my husband, who walked out just days later. So when my sister Emily called, offering a girls’ trip to Mexico with her, our mom, and Julie, I was stunned. They weren’t exactly supportive types, but grief makes you hope. I booked the flights, paid for a luxury penthouse suite, and crossed my fingers that maybe, just maybe, they were showing up for once.

But when we arrived, the front desk told me my name was removed from the reservation—by me. Only I hadn’t touched it. My family stood silent, guilty expressions giving them away. Emily had borrowed my phone two days earlier, claiming hers died. Now I realized she’d used my device and verification code to cancel me from my own booking.

Their excuse? “We didn’t want your grief killing the vibe.” I stared at the people who were supposed to love me. They hadn’t planned to support me—they just wanted a free vacation without my pain attached. I called the booking supervisor, reinstated the suite under my name, and removed them from it.

When their credit cards were declined, the panic set in. “Fix this,” Mom demanded. I simply said, “No.” Then I took my key and walked away.

Later, sipping champagne on the balcony, I blocked them all. The grief remained, but something new had taken root: peace. They didn’t break me. They freed me.

“To new beginnings,” I whispered, lifting my glass. The ocean answered back.