The guard adjusted his stance, blocking the gate with quiet authority.

Paige whipped around, yanking open her minivan door. Her children scrambled inside.

My parents returned to their SUV more slowly. My dad paused, glancing at the camera, then raised his hand and flipped it off.

A broken laugh escaped me.

The officer spoke to each driver in turn. One by one, the vehicles performed awkward three-point turns. The celebratory caravan retreated like a defeated parade.

Paige’s van peeled out first, gravel spitting behind it. Mark’s truck followed, slower, almost hesitant. My parents’ SUV was last. My father drove stiffly; my mother stared out her window.

When the final vehicle cleared the gate, it slid shut. The camera steadied on an empty road.

I dropped my phone into my lap and stared at the ocean. The waves remained indifferent.

“Mom?” Milo’s voice.

I turned. She stood twisting the hem of her shirt.

“You okay?” she asked. Always her first instinct — checking on me.

I opened my arms. She curled against me, small and warm.

“I’m okay,” I said, truly this time. “I’m relieved.”

“Were they here?”

“At the gate.”

“Did they want to come in?”

“Yes.”

“Did you let them?”

“No.”