Chương 5
I stared at her.
“And mine weren’t?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
She looked frustrated.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make everything about fairness.”
I almost laughed.
The irony was so obvious I did not know what else to do.
“Brenda.”
“What?”
“My kids were moved away from the family table at Grandma’s birthday party.”
She looked away.
“It was just seating.”
“No.”
I lowered my voice.
“It wasn’t.”
She tapped her fingers against her coffee cup.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
For the first time, she looked angry instead of defensive.
“Because everything is always about you.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You’re the successful one.”
Her voice became sharper.
“You’re the responsible one.
Everyone trusts you.
Everyone praises you.”
I stared at her.
“You think that’s what this is about?”
“I think you like being the person everyone needs.”
That hurt because there was a piece of truth hidden inside something cruel.
Maybe I did like being needed.
Maybe being needed had become the closest thing I knew to being loved.
But then she continued.
“And honestly, Kenneth, sometimes it’s hard watching everyone treat your kids like they’re perfect when mine have struggled.”
I sat back.
The anger in her voice was covering something else.
Something older.
Something she had never admitted.
Jealousy.
Not of my money.
Not of my job.
Of the life she thought I had.
“Brenda,” I said quietly.
“You think my kids have something you don’t.”
She looked away.
“I think everyone forgets what I’ve been through.”
I looked at my sister.
For the first time in years, I saw something besides selfishness.
I saw someone who had spent a lifetime comparing wounds.
And somehow, she had decided my happiness was proof that hers did not matter.
But understanding that did not erase what she had done.
It only explained it.
“I’m sorry your life has been hard,” I said.
“And I mean that.”
She looked at me.
“But my children don’t have to pay for that.”
Her face changed.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Something closer to shame.
She opened her mouth.
Then stopped.
For once, Brenda had no argument ready.
She looked down at her coffee.
For a moment, I thought she might apologize.
Not because I expected some perfect emotional breakthrough.
I had lived too long to believe people changed that quickly.
But because there was a small crack in her expression.
A moment where she seemed to see the damage instead of defending the reason behind it.
Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen.
I watched her face change.
Not dramatically.
Not like someone receiving terrible news.
More like someone remembering there was another person whose approval she needed.
“Mom?” I asked.
She locked the phone.
“She’s upset.”
I almost smiled.
“Of course she is.”
Brenda looked irritated.
“Can you not do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re above everyone.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“I’m not above anyone.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re judging us?”
The question surprised me.
Because I had spent years feeling judged by them.
Maybe both things could be true.
Maybe families could spend decades hurting each other because everyone was carrying their own version of the story.
“I’m not judging you, Brenda,” I said.
“I’m trying to understand how we got here.”
She looked away.
“You always think there’s a logical explanation for everything.”
“There usually is.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Sometimes people just get tired.”
The sentence came out softer than the others.
I looked at her.
“Tired of what?”
She rubbed her thumb along the edge of her coffee cup.
“Being the one nobody expects anything from.”
That was not what I expected.
She continued before I could respond.
“You were always the one teachers liked.”
She gave a small laugh.
“Dad took you fishing every weekend. Mom showed everyone your grades. You had a plan.”
I stared at her.
“That’s what you remember?”
She shrugged.
“It’s what I saw.”
I almost told her she was wrong.
I almost listed every time I failed.
Every time I was scared.
Every time I had no idea what I was doing.
But I stopped.
Because that would have become another competition.
Another argument about who suffered more.
Instead, I said, “You know what I remember?”
She looked up.
“I remember Mom crying because you ran away after high school.”
I paused.
“I remember Dad driving around looking for you all night.”
I folded my hands on the table.
“I remember everyone worrying about you.”
Her expression tightened.
“I was nineteen.”
“I know.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” I said.
“I probably don’t.”
That seemed to catch her off guard.
Because she was used to me arguing.
Defending.
Fixing.
Not admitting uncertainty.
“I thought you had it easier,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
“And I thought you were loved more.”
The words came out before I could soften them.
Brenda went still.
For several seconds, we just sat there.
Two adults who had spent most of their lives standing on opposite sides of the same family.
Finally, she looked down.
“Did you really think that?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“I thought you were the favorite.”
“I thought you were.”
A strange, uncomfortable laugh escaped from her.
It was not happy.
It was the sound of two people realizing they had been fighting over a position neither one actually had.
The waitress came by and asked if we needed anything else.
Neither of us answered immediately.
Then Brenda said, “No, thank you.”
The waitress walked away.
The silence returned.
“I shouldn’t have moved them,” Brenda said.
It was quiet.
Almost too quiet.
But it was the first honest sentence she had said all morning.
“No,” I replied.
She nodded.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At everyone.”
She stared out the window.
“I saw all those decorations and all those people talking about what a great family we were.”
She laughed bitterly.
May you like
“And I knew we weren’t.”
I listened.
