Hold on tight. I still can’t believe this.

I am thirty years old. My father is sixty-one. He also informed me that he was getting married again around three months ago.

He said, “To Dana!” with the enthusiasm of a teenager. A simple wedding is what we’re planning. Only family and close pals.

Dana. Fifty-something. wears high heels as if they were cemented to her feet. She always sounds like she’s making a sales pitch. She’s composed of 30% negative energy and 70% Botox, I promise.

I didn’t despise Dana. I made an effort. Really, really made an effort. Her jokes made me chuckle. even the ones that were illogical. I grinned as I ate each tasteless, overdone casserole. One Christmas, I bought her a lovely scarf.

It was never worn by her.

She made it obvious right away that I wasn’t welcome. Of course, not completely. It would have been too forthright. In a thousand small ways, though.

Dana would act strangely whenever Dad and I were reestablishing our relationship, such as when we were laughing at dumb movies or reminiscing about the past. She would begin to cough. Say she had a migraine instead. She even once reported having food illness twice in one week.

My father used to say, “Honey, she’s just sensitive.” You are aware of her stomach’s condition.

Yes, hypersensitive to avoiding the spotlight.

Instead of treating me like a daughter, she treated me like a ghost. Not even a human. It was simply a remnant of a life she didn’t want to face. I did, however, turn up. All holidays. each birthday. each Sunday.

Then Dad made the big call.

“We have a date!” he exclaimed. “Next month! I’m getting married to Dana!

“That’s fantastic, Dad,” I murmured over the phone, pretending to smile. “I’m glad for you.”

She wishes to keep things modest. You are aware of her personality. Only those who are close.

“Obviously,” I said. “Whatever brings you two joy.”

I never received an invitation. Don’t text. Not a card. Dana has not responded. However, I didn’t give it much thought. I assumed she was simply being herself. I still desired to help my father.

I purchased a basic dress in powder blue. paired it with a pair of short heels. I took Friday off from work in order to arrive early and lend a hand. Perhaps arrange chairs or something.

Dad called two weeks prior to the wedding.

He informed me, “Dana says you should stay with us.” “There’s no reason to spend money on a hotel.”

That made me think.

“That’s what she said?” I inquired.

Yes, she emphasized. claimed that she wanted to make things simple for you.

Oh. That sounded nothing like Dana. I didn’t argue, though.

“All right,” I replied. “I’ll be there on Friday evening.” I was, too. It was just after seven when I arrived.

Dana opened the door with a half-smile.

“Distance?” she inquired.

As I pulled my luggage inside, I remarked, “Not too bad.”

She indicated the guest room while passing me a mug of lukewarm tea.

Down the hall is the restroom. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, so don’t wake us.

She vanished into her chamber. After a few minutes, Dad emerged wearing slippers and sweatpants.

Then he pulled me into an embrace and said, “Hey, kiddo.” “Happy you made it.”

We chatted into the night. Just the two of us on the couch, remembering the day our old car broke down in Kentucky and going on road vacations.

I felt well when I went to bed at midnight. Even hopeful. What awaited me was unknown to me.

Sure, I was a bit anxious when I got up the following morning, but I was more thrilled to watch my dad get married. No matter how I felt about Dana, he still valued this day.

After rolling over, I reached for my phone.

Lost.

Strange. Could I have left it on the counter in the kitchen? I vaguely recall plugging it in before turning in for the night. Not a huge deal. I padded into the kitchen after getting up and putting on my clothes and makeup. Nothing.

No phone. No coffee. There is no fragrance of breakfast. Not a sound. It felt dead all around.

I looked at the crucial hook. empty. I felt my stomach sink a bit.

I turned the handle of the entrance door after walking over there. It remained stationary. There was a deadbolt locked. I attempted the rear entrance. The same thing. Next, the windows. They were all securely locked.

I yelled, “Dana?”

Nothing. I rapped on the door of her bedroom. Quiet.

Make the knock louder. “Dana? Hi there?

Nothing has changed.

I saw it at that moment. There’s a bright yellow Post-it note on the kitchen counter, nicely placed. written with curled, too-hard letters in Dana’s handwriting.

“Avoid taking things personally. Simply said, it’s not your day.

I just stood there, motionless. I was shut in by her. My phone was taken by her. My keys. My voice. As if I were a problem that she could hide behind a door.