I put the phone face down on the nightstand and did not respond.
By morning I had thirty-seven missed calls and photographs coming at irregular intervals in the texts. Water pouring through the bedroom ceiling. A sagging wet section above where they slept. Insulation hanging loose. The antique nightstand my mother loved dark with water damage. My father’s camera case soaked through. A suitcase on the floor like someone had tried to save it too late.
My sister sent: Get over there before Dad does something he regrets.
My mother wrote: This is your mess. Fix it.
Not one message acknowledged the three days I had worked. Not one mentioned the group chat or the video or the vacation printouts. In the version of events they were now assembling for themselves and anyone else who would listen, I had appeared from nowhere as the reckless daughter who damaged their home and disappeared.
