I wanted to believe her.
I paid for my own hotel room and every expense involving Lily.
I bought her a pink swimsuit, a plastic bucket for seashells, and sandals with tiny silver stars across the straps.
I also rented a car because I did not want to depend on anyone else for transportation.
Within a day, my parents were borrowing it.
They needed snacks from the store.
My father had forgotten sunscreen.
My mother wanted a particular brand of coffee creamer that the hotel did not carry.
Each time, they acted as though the rental car belonged to the whole family because I was not using it at that exact moment.
That had always been the pattern with us.
What belonged to me became communal.
What belonged to Vanessa remained hers.
I tried not to let it bother me.
I had promised myself I would get through five nights without reopening every old family wound.
The first day was almost pleasant.
Lily ran toward the water with her cousins, laughing whenever a wave chased her back up the sand.
She filled her bucket with broken shells and insisted each one was treasure.
That evening, she fell asleep with sand still caught between her toes.