Chapter 4
“You did help,” my father said. He said it as though it were a point in his favor.
“I did. Gladly. And nobody said thank you. Lauren told her friends she and Trevor had worked hard for that house.” I breathed slowly as the IV tugged at my arm. “I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying it because it’s true, and I’m tired of being the only person in this family who remembers it.”
“So this is punishment,” my father said bitterly.
“No.” I shook my head. “Punishment would mean I want you to suffer. I don’t. I only want to stop pretending. For thirty-four years I’ve been waiting for you to choose me first, or even just to choose me at all. Today, I finally stopped waiting.”
Mom left the chair and knelt beside my bed, gripping the rail.
“Miranda, please,” she sobbed. “We didn’t understand. We thought you were fine. You’re always fine. You never ask for anything. Tell Julian to tear it up. Please. We’ll do anything.”
I studied her face, the lines around her eyes, the gray she’d stopped coloring last spring, and felt unwanted tenderness ache through me.
She was still my mother.
That was what made it difficult.
“No,” I said gently.
“What do you want us to do?”
“Right now, I want you to go home and let me sleep.” I paused. “And later, if you truly want to know what to do, ask yourselves why you needed me to explain it.”
Before either could answer, the door opened.
Marisol stood there, arms folded, watching the monitor above me. My heart rate had climbed, the numbers glowing amber.
“I’m sorry,” she said, in the calm voice of someone who has said this sentence to a great many families. “Miranda needs rest. Visiting hours ended a while ago, and her numbers need to come down.”
“We’re her parents,” my father said.
“Yes, sir,” Marisol said pleasantly. “And she’s my patient. Please.”
She didn’t need to raise her voice.
Dad paused at the door. For a second, I thought he might finally say something sincere.
“You’ll change your mind when you’ve calmed down,” he said instead.
“I’ve never been calmer, Dad.”
He flinched. Then he helped Mom up and led her into the hall. She looked back once, silently forming my name.
The door shut.
Her untouched coffee remained on the windowsill, a thin ribbon of steam rising from it. It looked oddly like an offering abandoned at an empty shrine.
