Not a slam, just a click.
Somehow, the click was worse.
I sat there for another twenty minutes.
Then I opened my phone.
I don’t use Instagram. Never have, but I know Trish’s handle because she tags family photos constantly.
I created a throwaway account the previous year when Trish posted pictures from Norah’s seventeenth birthday without asking, and I wanted to see what she’d written.
So I logged in and navigated to Trish’s profile.
Her story had expired.
Instagram stories disappear after twenty-four hours.
But Trish isn’t careful about technology.
She’s careful about appearance, which is different.
She’d posted the video to her Close Friends story, thinking that made it private and permanent.
But she’d also cross-posted a screenshot to a private group chat she runs with a handful of friends and family.
How do I know this?
Because my cousin April, who is in that group chat, texted me at 6:00 that morning with a screenshot and said, “Blake, I am so sorry. You need to see this.”
The screenshot showed the video thumbnail of Connor throwing Norah’s acceptance letter into the pool.
Trish had captioned it:
“Norah’s big day. Connor keeping it real.”
With a crying-laughing emoji and a graduation cap emoji.
Thirty-seven people saw it.
Thirty-seven people watched my kid’s acceptance letter get destroyed by an 11-year-old, and the caption treated it like content.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I did something I shouldn’t have done, but I’m not going to pretend I regret it.
I scrolled through the group chat screenshots April sent me, and I found the planning thread.
Three days before the party, Trish had texted my mother in a separate conversation that April also had access to because Donna can’t figure out group chats and accidentally added April to the wrong thread six months ago.
Neither of them had noticed April was in there.
The messages were simple.
Trish had written:
“Connor’s going to be impossible at this thing. There’s nothing for kids to do. I’m just going to let him do whatever.”
Donna replied:
“Good. Let him. She needs to be taken down a peg. Walking around like she invented college.”
Trish: “Should I let him open the presents? He’s been asking.”
Donna: “Just make sure he does it before the cake. I want to see her face.”
I read that last line four times.
I want to see her face.
My 68-year-old mother wanted to watch her granddaughter’s face crumble at her own graduation party.
She planned it.
She coordinated it with my sister.
They used an 11-year-old as the delivery mechanism so they could keep their hands clean.
“He’s just a kid.”
“He’s bored.”
“There’s nothing here for children.”
Yeah, I’ll give you a second with that one.
I needed one, too.
I forwarded every screenshot to my personal email, then backed them up to a cloud folder.
Not because I was planning anything yet.
Because I’m an engineer.
I document things.
It’s reflex.
That afternoon, Donna called me.
I let it ring three times and then picked up.
“Blake, I hope you’re not still pouting about yesterday.”
“I’m not pouting, Mom.”
“Good, because Trish is upset. She said you gave Connor a look that scared him. And frankly, I think you owe her an apology.”
I held the phone away from my face for a second and looked at it.
Just looked at it.
Then I brought it back.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Don’t think too long. Family is family, Blake. Your father never held grudges.”
“Dad also never let anyone throw his kid’s stuff in a pool.”
Silence.
“Then you’re being dramatic. Connor is eleven.”
“Right. Talk soon, Mom.”
I hung up.
I sat on the porch with my coffee going cold, and I pulled up the spreadsheet on my laptop.
I keep a spreadsheet.