Rachel: Obviously. We just got the Tesla detailed. Are we parking in the driveway or the street? I don’t want pollen on the paint.

Linda: Driveway, Rachel. Everyone needs to see it.

I stared at the messages. They weren’t conversations; they were performance art. My family didn’t communicate; they broadcasted. My mother, Linda, treated motherhood like a stock portfolio. Michael, a corporate lawyer with a shark’s grin, and Rachel, a tech executive who spoke exclusively in buzzwords, were her blue-chip stocks.

And then there was me. Emily. The teacher. The penny stock.

I took a deep breath, my thumbs hovering over the glass. I typed, I can bring my famous apple pie. The one Grandma used to love.

I hit send.

I watched the screen. Read by Everyone.

The silence that followed was heavy, a digital vacuum sucking the air out of the room. One minute passed. Then two. No one replied. No emoji reaction. Just the cold confirmation that I had been seen and actively ignored.