Chapter 8 - Flying Monkeys on WhatsApp
Peace on an island is cheap until the extended family discovers international messaging.
By Saturday morning, the narrative had been successfully spun by my mother to the wider Vance diaspora. The aunties, the cousins in Ohio, and the great-uncles who only emerged for weddings and funerals had been mobilized like an infantry unit of flying monkeys.
I was sitting in an open-air café in Fira, waiting for our rental Jeep to be prepped for a drive to the black sand beaches of Perissa, when my phone buzzed with an incoming WhatsApp message from Aunt Brenda—Mom’s older sister, the self-appointed moral compass of the Midwest branch of the family.
**Aunt Brenda:** *Maya Elizabeth. I have spent the last three hours on the phone with your mother. She is completely shattered. She has shingles from the stress. I always thought you were the sensible child, the one with Christian charity in her heart. To leave your pregnant sister facing eviction while you flaunt luxury suites in Europe on Facebook is a level of cruelty I didn't think our family was capable of. You need to wire your mother the money for that venue fine immediately and call your sister to apologize. Blood is thicker than water, Maya. When Daniel’s family gets tired of your pride, we are the only people who will be there for you.*
I looked at the message. Two years ago, a text like that would have sent me into a four-page defensive panic, citing receipts, dates, and bank balances in a desperate plea to prove that I wasn't the monster Brenda imagined.
Now, my corporate training kicked in. When an irrational stakeholder sends an inflammatory email, you do not debate morality; you attach the ledger and cc their supervisor.
I tapped out a response:
*Dear Aunt Brenda. Thank you for reaching out. I know how much you value family accountability. Below, you will find an itemized summary of the financial assistance I have provided Mom, Dad, and Khloe over the last twenty-four months, totaling $41,760, which includes Khloe’s rent, Dad’s commercial practice debt, and Mom’s vehicle insurance.*
I copied the clean, three-column table directly from my Google Sheets app.
*Furthermore,* I typed, *the venue fine of $6,500 was incurred because Mom and Tyler brought illegal commercial pyrotechnics into a registered historic venue without the knowledge or consent of the event hosts, causing severe silk damage and tripping municipal alarms. Mom also attempted to charge $11,842 in unauthorized international travel to an emergency card I provided for day-of wedding logistics. If you would like to contribute toward their financial obligations, Khloe’s Venmo handle is @Khloe-Vance-9. I am sure she would be deeply grateful for your Christian charity. Best, Maya.*
I hit send.
Then, I forwarded the exact same message to Great-Aunt Clara, Cousin Sarah, and Uncle Greg—every single person who had sent a passive-aggressive or scolding message over the last forty-eight hours.
Daniel watched me, chewing on a toasted sesame bagel with honey. “Did you just drop the corporate annual report on Aunt Brenda?”
“I provided the quarterly audit,” I said, setting the phone down with a satisfying *thunk*. “If they want to participate in the Vance family welfare committee, they can buy shares. Otherwise, they can stop commenting on the operations.”
Ten minutes passed.
Aunt Brenda’s response came through:
*Aunt Brenda is typing…*
*Aunt Brenda is typing…*
Then, nothing. The typing indicator vanished.
Five minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification from Cousin Sarah, Aunt Brenda’s twenty-eight-year-old daughter:
**Cousin Sarah:** *HOLY SHIT MAYA. Mom just called me screaming because she thought your mom had paid for everything herself. She had no idea you were paying Khloe’s rent! Mom is furious at your mom now because she loaned Aunt Evelyn $1,500 last Christmas that she said was for ‘Dad’s insulin’ which Mom now thinks went to Khloe’s botox! You are an absolute legend. Have an incredible time in Greece!*
I laughed aloud—a real, deep belly laugh that made the old Greek man sweeping the café patio look over and smile at me.
“What?” Daniel asked, grinning.
“The Midwest coalition has officially collapsed,” I said, sliding the phone into my straw tote bag. “Mom’s credit line with Aunt Brenda has been terminated.”
Daniel stood up, tossing a few Euro notes onto the table, and held out his hand. “The Jeep is ready. No phones allowed on the beach.”
“Deal,” I said.
For the next eight hours, my phone sat locked in the glove compartment of a battered Suzuki Jimny while Daniel and I swam in water so clear you could count the black volcanic pebbles twelve feet below our feet. We ate grilled octopus with our fingers at a shack with plastic tables right on the surf, the salt drying into white crusts on our skin.
We didn't talk about Khloe. We didn't talk about Mom’s shingles or Dad’s four hundred dollars.
We talked about where we wanted to buy our first home. We talked about Daniel’s plan to launch his own engineering consultancy next spring. We talked about how many children we wanted, and how we would raise them to know that love was something you gave freely, not a debt that came with an itemized bill of compliance.
May you like
By the time the stars came out over the caldera, blinking like diamonds against the dark Aegean sky, the past felt like an old coat I had finally dropped on the floor—too heavy to carry, too threadbare to keep me warm, and entirely unnecessary in the summer sun.
***
