And through all of it, Marisa called me every night.
At first we talked awkwardly.
Then honestly.
For the first time.
One evening she said:
“I think I hated you because Mom taught me you thought you were better than me.”
I sat on my apartment floor beside Grandma’s desk.
“I thought you hated me because you were spoiled.”
She laughed through tears.
“I was spoiled.”
“Very.”
“Thanks.”
“But I also thought Mom loved you more.”
Marisa went quiet.
“She did.”
The words hurt.
Not because they were new.
Because someone finally admitted them.
Then Marisa said:
“But that wasn’t the gift I thought it was.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Every time I failed, they rescued me.”
“Exactly.”
“No.
Listen.”
Her voice trembled.
“They never let me find out whether I could survive.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“You think they believed in me because they gave me money.
