My phone died in the airport parking lot.
One percent. No charger. And I needed the gate code to get back into my apartment.
So I asked my mom for hers.
She handed it over easily—like she always did. Calm. Pleasant. The same gentle smile she used whenever anything uncomfortable hovered beneath the surface of our family.
I opened my messages, found the code, and just as I was about to give the phone back, I noticed something.
Her Photos app was still open.
In the corner of the screen was a folder.
Gray icon.
No preview image.
Just one word.
Hidden.
I should’ve ignored it.
I know that now.
But curiosity moved faster than caution. I tapped it.
The phone asked for Face ID.
Mom was standing right beside me, sipping her coffee.
The screen unlocked instantly.
The album opened.
At first, the images didn’t register.
Bright beaches under golden sun.
A roller coaster mid-drop.
Hotel mirrors reflecting laughter.
Then I saw my sister, Ava—frosting smeared across her nose, holding a birthday cake shaped like a dolphin.
My dad stood beside her wearing a ridiculous straw hat, arm wrapped around Mom like they were posing for a travel ad.
I frowned.
Then I saw the dates.
Two summers ago.
Last spring.
Thanksgiving weekend.
Family trips.
Vacations.
Celebrations.
I hadn’t been at any of them.
My stomach went ice cold.
I swiped faster.
Maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe there was an explanation.
But every photo showed the same thing.
Them.
Smiling.
Together.
Without me.
There was Ava again—this time standing in front of a banner that read Happy 16th. Mom’s arm draped around her shoulders. Dad leaning in close, his smile wide and genuine.
I never received an invitation.
I don’t remember breathing when my mom’s voice cut through the silence.
“What are you doing?”
It was soft.
But it hit like a strike.
I looked up at her.
For one second, she didn’t mask it.
Her face didn’t show anger.
It showed fear.
The kind you see when someone realizes they’ve been caught.
“You have a hidden folder,” I said slowly. My voice didn’t even sound like mine. “And it’s full of a life I wasn’t invited to.”
She reached for the phone.
I instinctively pulled it back, clutching it like proof.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, “it’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is,” I said. My throat burned. “Because it looks like you erased me.”
My dad walked in from the hallway carrying my suitcase. He froze when he saw the screen.
In the corner of one photo, Ava’s name was tagged with a heart.
“How long?” I asked.
Silence filled the room.
No denial.
No explanation.
Just silence.
That night, I lay in my childhood bedroom staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how my family had been building memories without me.
The pain wasn’t loud.
It didn’t scream.
It settled deep in my chest and stayed there.
The next morning, I opened the family group chat.
I typed four words.
Don’t contact me again.
I expected quiet.
Instead, what they sent back shattered everything I thought I understood about my own family.
