The Code to My Kingdom
They banned me from the family reunion like I was a stain they needed to scrub out. And now I’m sitting in a rental car, watching my mother lead the pack up the driveway of the beach house she thinks is a lucky rental. She enters the code I set myself.
They haul in coolers and confidence, oblivious that the deed has my LLC on it. I’ll let them settle in for twenty minutes before I remind them who really holds the keys. My name is Skyla Morales, and right now I am invisible.
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a rented silver sedan with tinted windows, parked just far enough away to be mistaken for a neighbor’s guest but close enough to see the sweat glistening on my mother’s forehead. The engine is off. The air conditioning died five minutes ago, and the Georgia heat is already starting to press against the glass like a heavy, wet blanket.
It’s ninety degrees in Seabrook Cove today, with humidity that makes the air feel thick enough to drink. I don’t mind the heat. The heat keeps me focused.
It reminds me that I’m real, even if the people currently invading my property believe I have ceased to exist. Through the windshield, I watch the caravan arrive. It’s a spectacle of entitlement.
