The airline email arrived while my family was still laughing at the Christmas card. My sister Corinne had arranged us on our mother's sofa, then handed out copies of a design her son had made. Everyone appeared inside a snow globe except me. I was drawn outside it holding shopping bags beneath the caption about the family delivery service. Corinne said the joke worked because I always arrived with what people forgot. My mother covered her mouth, but not before I saw her smile. I laughed too, from the habit of keeping gatherings easy.
My phone showed a reminder for a flight to Lisbon the next morning. I had intended to book the following weekend, after Christmas, for a ten-day ceramics workshop. The nonrefundable ticket was my mistake. For months I had hidden the trip because Corinne expected me to organize dinner for eighteen, collect our mother, and cover the rental house deposit. I looked from the wrong date to my cartoon bags on the card. Suddenly the mistake felt less like a problem than an unlocked door.
I told everyone I was leaving in the morning. Corinne thought I meant the party. When I said Portugal, the room went still. My mother asked who would make her lemon cake. My brother Dean reminded me the rental balance was due on Friday. I said instructions were in the green folder at my apartment, along with every reservation I had actually made. Corinne accused me of punishing them over a harmless card. I set my copy face down and said the card had only made the arrangement visible. Then I went home to pack, wondering whether courage always felt so much like forgetting something important. For once, I wanted to learn what happened when I did not fix the first plan.