« Sortez de la piscine ! » a crié ma mère à mes enfants. « Cette fête est pour les vraies familles, pas pour les ratés ! » Une cinquantaine d’invités nous ont regardés partir, trempés jusqu’aux os. J’ai discrètement ramassé mes serviettes. Le lendemain matin, l’agent immobilier a appelé : « Madame, la location de la maison de plage est résiliée… »

Thank you for coming to Ley’s Heritage Night, I typed. She was proud to have you there.

There was a long pause. Then three dots appeared.

I’m proud of her, Mom wrote back. And of you. Even if I didn’t show it when I should have.

I stared at the words, feeling that familiar mix of tenderness and caution.

Thank you, I wrote. We’re all learning.

Downstairs, the pool light glowed blue against the water. The towel fluttered slightly in the breeze, its stripes catching the last bit of daylight. It had been there for our humiliation and our reclamation, for our anger and our forgiveness, for the day someone called us broken and the many days we proved we weren’t.

I wrapped it tighter around my shoulders, breathing in the salt air, and thought of all the places it—and we—might still go.

Whatever came next, I knew this much: no one would ever again tell my children they didn’t belong somewhere I owned.

And if they tried, well…we had plenty of other beaches.

And we had a towel that always, always came with us.