I looked past them into the living room. My father, Arthur, was sitting in his recliner, staring at the television. He didn’t even turn his head.

“Dad?” I called out. “Did you know about this?”

He sighed, the sound of a man who found his own daughter’s outrage to be an inconvenience. “She’s right, Linda. Don’t be selfish. You have the money; you can always book another one later. Let the cousins have this memory. It’s what a family does.”

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