So when my sister, Susan, called to invite us to her estate for an afternoon by the pool, I felt a cautious hope stir in my chest. She said it would be relaxed, just close family and a few friends, nothing too formal. It sounded almost like the old days — the ones where we’d laugh until our sides hurt, swap embarrassing stories, and let the kids run wild in the yard until the sun set.

Greg and I agreed immediately. Our daughter Lily was eight now — bright-eyed, endlessly curious, and a fish in the water since she could walk. She’d been counting down the days to this visit since I told her. “Tiger-lily,” Greg called her, his voice warm with pride.

But if I was honest with myself, there was a thread of unease I couldn’t quite untangle. Ever since Susan married Cooper, her life had shifted into something I hardly recognized — a parade of meticulously planned parties, curated guest lists, and clothes that arrived in branded garment bags. She had a way of speaking now that was careful, deliberate, like she was auditioning for a role she wasn’t entirely sure she’d landed.