I was working the front desk at the Ashford Grand in downtown Charlotte when my phone buzzed beside the computer.*
Vanessa.
My fiancée usually texted during check-in hours for small things—last-minute plans, errands, or money for something she had already decided on. I expected something annoying but ordinary.
Instead, I read:
Hey, we talked and gave Ethan and Ava’s spots to my sister’s crew. They’re just more fun for this kind of trip lol.
I stared at the screen.
Ethan was my eleven-year-old son. For two weeks, he had been practicing Spanish for our Punta Cana vacation. Ava, my seven-year-old daughter, had made a glitter-covered packing list. At the bottom, she had written in careful letters: ASK DAD IF FLAMINGOS BITE.
And Vanessa had reduced them to “spots.”
