It’s a punch to the ribs.
Because for years, I let him believe I hated this town.
Because for years, that was safer.
Charlotte drops into a kitchen chair like her strings have been cut. Mom presses a glass of water into her hands and then hovers, clearly one frayed nerve away from polishing the table with her sleeve.
“Did he show up at your apartment?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “He wouldn’t do that. Not unless he was sure you were there. But he’s been calling constantly. I muted him, but then he started calling Aunt Lisa. And the school, Faith. He called my advisor’s office, asking if I’d shown strange behavior lately.”
My stomach lurches. “He what?”
“He said he was ‘worried about my mental stability after witnessing my sister’s breakdown.’” She does air quotes so aggressively, I’m surprised they don’t leave marks. “He’s spinning this narrative like you went off the deep end, and he’s the tragic father of the runaway bride.”
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.
“I didn’t have a breakdown,” I say quietly. “I just finally stopped pretending.”
“I know that.” Charlotte’s gaze locks on mine, fierce and bright. “Mom knows that. Most people with functioning brains know that. He doesn’t.”
“He can’t,” Mom says softly. “Because then he’d have to admit he pushed you there.”
The tension in my chest twists tighter. A rope pulled from both ends. The air feels thin.
“I need to keep baking while we talk,” I blurt. “Is that okay? I just… my hands need to be doing something, or I’m going to start climbing the walls.”
Charlotte nods, she expected that. “You do that. I’ll just… emotionally unravel from this chair.”
“Great,” I mumble. “Family multitasking.”
I dust more flour on the counter and pick up the rolling pin again, pushing it across the dough. The motion is steady, rhythmic. My grandma used to call it “kitchen therapy.” Right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle under the island.
The kitchen fills with small sounds. The creak of the rolling pin, the faint tick of the oven preheating, the drip of melting snow from Charlotte’s coat where it hangs over a chair.
“Tell me what happened,” Charlotte says gently.
I stare down at the dough. “I walked out,” I say. “From the hotel. From the wedding. I just… left.”
Charlotte exhales. “Dad said you had a meltdown.”
Mom shoots her a look.
“I’m quoting,” Charlotte adds quickly. “Not agreeing. For the record, I told him maybe if he stopped treating his daughters like employees with no benefits, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Despite everything, a choked laugh escapes me.
I press the cookie cutter into the dough a little too hard.
“He pushed and pushed,” I say. “Work, the engagement, the wedding planning. Every decision. Every email. Every centerpiece. And I kept trying to be… whatever he needed. I thought if I did everything right, he’d finally be proud of me.”
Charlotte snorts, a harsh, humorless sound. “He doesn’t know how to be proud of anyone who isn’t a reflection of himself.”
I blink at her, startled by the blunt honesty.
She meets my gaze, eyes suddenly older than twenty. “He never was with Mom. Or me. Or you. We all kept hoping for something he’s not capable of giving.”
Mom closes her eyes briefly, pain flickering across her face. Old pain. Familiar.
