Mine.
Imogen Kingsford.
My card.
My email.
My account.
The rooms, the dining, the drink packages, the snorkeling in Nassau and the private cabana and the beach access in Cozumel — all of it existed because I existed, sat in a system under my login, controlled by my confirmation number, revocable by me and no one else.
They had thought I stopped mattering the moment the payment cleared.
They had celebrated the clearing of it.
What they had not thought about, because they had never once had to think about how any of it worked, was that the entire vacation still belonged to the person who booked it.
They had taken my money and told me I wasn’t family.