They left me at a gas station on Christmas Day. I'm standing in the parking lot watching our silver minivan merge onto the highway, taillights blinking red in the snow, and I can't quite process what's happening. My family just... drove away. Without me. The wind cuts through my sweater—I left my coat in the car because Mom said we were only stopping for five minutes—and I'm shaking, but I don't think it's from the cold. My phone is dead. My wallet is in my backpack. My backpack is in the trunk. I have nothing except the growing realization that not a single person in that vehicle has noticed I'm missing. The gas station attendant is staring at me through the window, probably wondering why some seventeen-year-old girl is frozen in place like a mannequin while snow collects in her hair. I should go inside. I should do something. But I can't stop watching that spot on the highway where our van disappeared, like if I stare hard enough, they'll suddenly realize and come back. They won't realize. They never do. This morning started like every Christmas in the Carter household: complete chaos centered entirely around everyone except me. Madison needed her special gluten-free pancakes because she's on some new influencer diet. Tyler couldn't find his gaming headset for the car ride to Grandma's, so the whole house had to stop and search. Dad was stressed about the drive. Mom was stressed about the gifts. And me? I made myself toast and ate it standing by the sink, invisible as always. "Emma, did you see Tyler's headset?" Mom had asked, not even looking at me. "No." "Well, can you help look? We need to leave in twenty minutes." I found it under the couch ten minutes later. No one said thank you. Tyler just grabbed it and complained that the battery was low, like that was somehow my fault too. The four-hour drive was exactly what I expected. Madison took the good middle seat with the working charging port, leaving me crammed against the window behind Dad where the heater doesn't reach. She spent the entire time taking selfies and doing her makeup for Instagram stories about our "perfect family Christmas." Tyler had both seats in the back row so he could "stretch out" with his Switch. When I asked if we could stop for food because I'd only had that toast seven hours ago, Dad said, "We'll eat at Grandma's. Don't be difficult." Difficult. That's what I am when I have needs. When Madison wanted to stop at that boutique exit an hour ago because she "absolutely needed" to check if they had her size in some viral jacket, we pulled off immediately. Twenty minutes she took in that store. Twenty minutes of Dad checking his watch but not saying a word because Madison is the golden child, the one with twelve thousand Instagram followers, the one whose college applications are Mom's favorite conversation topic at dinner parties. When Tyler announced he had to pee "really bad" at the next exit, we stopped again. And then this exit. The gas station. Mom wanted coffee. Dad needed to fill up. "Five-minute stop," he announced. "Bathroom break only. Don't wander off." I went inside. Used the bathroom. The line was long—apparently everyone travels on Christmas—and when I finally got out, I grabbed a granola bar because my stomach was eating itself. The card reader was down. I had to wait for the attendant to reboot it. Maybe seven minutes total. When I walked outside, our parking spot was empty. At first, I thought they'd moved to a different pump. I walked around the building, checking every angle, my heart starting to race. Not there. I looked toward the convenience store lot. Not there either. Then I saw it: our silver Honda Odyssey with the dent in the back bumper from when Tyler backed into a mailbox, merging onto Highway 70 West. Without me. I tried to run after it—stupid, I know, like I could somehow catch a car—but my legs felt like concrete. I made it maybe ten steps before I stopped, watching them disappear into holiday traffic. That was five minutes ago. Now I'm just standing here in the snow, and I'm doing this weird calculation in my head: How long will it take them to notice? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? Will it be Mom who realizes, doing that mental headcount she sometimes does? Will it be Madison, annoyed that I'm not responding to some text she sent? Or will they make it all the way to Grandma's house, pile out of the van with their overnight bags and shopping bags of gifts, and only then—only when Grandma asks "Where's Emma?"—will they finally remember I exist? The thought makes something crack open in my chest. They forgot my birthday last year. Not forgot-forgot, but close enough. They remembered at 9 PM when Grandma called to sing to me, and then Mom rushed to bake a box cake while apologizing about how "crazy" the week had been. Madison had a dance competition. Tyler had a tournament. I turned sixteen on a Tuesday, and no one wrote it down. This year, they didn't plan a party for my seventeenth. "You're not really a party person anyway," Mom said, like that made it okay. But this? Leaving me at a gas station on Christmas? This is a new low, even for them. My phone buzzes in my pocket—except it doesn't, because it's dead, and I'm imagining things. I'm imagining that someone cares enough to call. The snow is falling harder now. My fingers are going numb. I need to go inside. I need to figure out what to do. But I can't stop staring at that highway, at the place where my family drove away without me, and I can't stop thinking: What if they don't come back? What if they don't even notice until tomorrow?