Chương 5
"Because I was angry."
The answer was immediate.
Too immediate to be rehearsed.
"At me?"
"At everything."
I waited.
"My hours got cut at work."
I frowned.
"What?"
"I didn't tell anyone."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want another lecture about being irresponsible."
The words hurt because I knew exactly who she meant.
Me.
"I wouldn't have lectured you."
Leah laughed softly.
"You wouldn't mean to."
That hurt more because there was truth inside it.
"I would have helped you."
"Exactly."
The room became quiet.
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"No, Leah, I really don't."
She took a breath.
"I came over yesterday because Mom asked if I could help decorate."
"Okay."
"And then I saw the paperwork."
"And?"
"And I saw your name."
I waited.
"I saw how much you had done."
Her voice cracked slightly.
"And I felt terrible."
I looked away.
"Why?"
"Because everyone talks about how independent I am."
She laughed without humor.
"But you are the one who actually shows up."
I did not know what to say.
"I didn't tell them because I wanted to ruin your surprise," she said.
"Then why?"
"Because I panicked."
"About what?"
"About becoming the daughter who doesn't matter."
The sentence landed somewhere deeper than I expected.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"I thought you were replacing me," she whispered.
I closed my eyes.
The same words.
Different voice.
"My house wasn't replacing you."
"I know that now."
"Do you?"
"Not completely."
That honesty sounded like Leah.
Messy.
Unfinished.
Real.
"I was jealous," she admitted.
I looked at the floor.
"Of a house?"
"Of what it represented."
"What?"
"That they trusted you."
The answer stayed with me.
Because suddenly the Christmas dinner, the hidden papers, the accusations, all of it felt less like a simple betrayal.
It felt like four people standing around the same wound, each convinced they were the only one bleeding.
"I never wanted them to need me more than you," I said.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
She became quiet.
Then she said, "Maybe I don't."
I appreciated that.
More than an apology.
More than an explanation.
She was finally not trying to win.
"I should have called you," she said.
"Yes."
"I should not have shown them."
"Yes."
"I should have talked to you first."
"Yes."
A small silence followed.
Then she said, "Are you still giving them the house?"
I looked at the papers.
"I don't know."
Leah did not argue.
She did not say they deserved it.
She did not say I should forgive.
She just said, "Okay."
That word again.
Maybe everyone had finally run out of ways to pretend they knew what came next.
"Leah."
"Yeah?"
"Why did Dad say everything was easier without me?"
The silence on the other end was immediate.
Too immediate.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Did he say that?"
"Yes."
Leah stopped breathing for a second.
Then she said quietly,
"I didn't know he said that."
Something about her reaction made my stomach tighten.
Not surprise.
Not exactly.
Fear.
"Leah?"
"I need to tell you something."
Her voice changed.
The fast, confident version of my sister disappeared.
"What?"
"I think Dad has been hiding something."
I stayed quiet.
Not because I did not have anything to say.
Because I knew my sister well enough to recognize the sound of someone standing at the edge of a difficult confession.
"What is he hiding?"
Leah did not answer immediately.
I heard something in the background.
A car passing.
A door closing.
She was probably sitting in her car.
That was where Leah went when she needed privacy.
When we were teenagers, she used to sit in her old blue sedan behind the house after arguments.
I would watch from my bedroom window and wonder why she would rather sit alone in a freezing car than come inside.
Years later, I understood.
Sometimes people needed a place where nobody could ask them to be okay.
"I don't know everything," she finally said.
"Then tell me what you do know."
She breathed out.
"Last month, Dad got a letter."
"What kind of letter?"
"I don't know."
"Leah."
"I saw the envelope."
"Where?"
"On the kitchen counter."
I sat straighter.
The same place where my paperwork had apparently ended up.
"What did it say?"
"I couldn't read the whole thing."
"Couldn't or didn't?"
A pause.
"Didn't."
The honesty mattered.
"Okay."
"It had something about a loan."
My stomach tightened.
"A loan?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"That's all I saw."
I stood and walked toward the window again.
The street outside looked exactly the same as it had yesterday.
Cars parked along the curb.
Garbage cans waiting for pickup.
A neighbor's Christmas lights still blinking even though Christmas was over.
It bothered me how normal everything looked.
"My parents don't have loans."
Leah was quiet.
I stopped.
"Do they?"
"I don't know."
"You said you think Dad is hiding something."
"Because I heard him arguing with Mom."
"When?"
"Two weeks ago."
The same week Dad told me I made family gatherings tense.
The same week I had started preparing the house paperwork.
"What did they argue about?"
Leah swallowed.
"I heard Dad say, 'She can't know.'"
A cold feeling moved through me.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Leah."
"I swear."
Her voice became frustrated.
"I don't know."
I believed her.
That was the strange thing.
For all the resentment between us, I believed her.
"What else?"
"Mom was crying."
"Mom?"
"Yeah."
Leah went quiet.
"That's why I came over yesterday."
"To decorate?"
"That was the excuse."
I leaned against the wall.
"What was the real reason?"
"I wanted to check on them."
The admission surprised me.
"I thought something was wrong."
"And?"
"And then I found out about the house."
The pieces still did not fit.
Not completely.
"What does Dad saying I made things easier have to do with a loan?"
"I don't know."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because I think he was angry because he felt trapped."
May you like
I frowned.
"By me?"
