Dad stood.
“Conversation over.”
“No.”
My voice surprised even me.
He stopped.
For twenty-nine years, my father had trained me to believe his volume ended discussions.
It no longer did.
“I want one answer.”
“You are not entitled—”
“Why didn’t you come to my graduation?”
His face hardened.
Mom answered instead.
“Because we were hurt.”
I stared at her.
“You were hurt?”
“After everything we’ve done, you kept secrets.”
“I didn’t know there was a trust.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“Yes.”
Mom laughed bitterly.
“Opal worshipped you.”
“She loved me.”
“She preferred you.”
The words came fast now, years of resentment breaking through.
“Always.
Even when you were little.
Sylvie’s so clever.
Sylvie reads so much.
Sylvie asks such interesting questions.”
I stared.
“You resented me because Grandma liked talking to me?”
“You made everyone feel inferior.”
I almost couldn’t process it.
“I was ten.”
