Page 114 of Letters From A Stalker

“I didn’t say that.”

“You never have to, Julia. You always take everyone else’s side.”

There it is. We somehow skipped from Nanna’s kitchen to my loyalty in less than five minutes.

I put the mug down before I grip it hard enough to spill something. “This isn’t about sides. If you need help, ask for help. If you’re overwhelmed, tell me you’re overwhelmed. But being overwhelmed doesn’t make it okay to take it out on her.”

“I don’t take anything out on her.”

I close my eyes and press two fingers against my forehead. There is no useful response because both of us know she does, and arguing about the definition will only create three new arguments.

The silence stretches for a moment before her voice changes again, the irritation giving way to something almost casual. “So when are you coming over?”

My stomach drops because I know where this is going before I answer.

“I’m not sure. Maybe next weekend.”

“Maybe.” The word comes flat and unimpressed.

“I have things I need to get done this weekend.”

“Of course.”

I stare through the kitchen window toward the backyard.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It never means nothing when you say it like that.”

Another sigh comes through the phone, this one heavy enough that I can picture her rolling her eyes. “You always manage to have time for everybody else.”

The sentence lands exactly where it always does. I say nothing.

She keeps going. “You can have Tessa over. You can make plans with friends. You apparently have time to sit around drinking coffee with neighbors, but when it comes to family, suddenly you’re busy.”

I am thirty-four years old, standing inside a house I own with a coffee mug I bought myself and a mortgage payment that arrives reliably every month. None of it matters because for a moment, I feel twelve.

“I saw Tessa last weekend.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The point is that family always gets whatever is left.”

The guilt begins settling in my stomach before I can stop it. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.” Her voice softens slightly, which somehow makes the next sentence hurt more. “You’re like your father that way. Everybody else comes first and the people who actually love you get whatever time you have left.”

I stop breathing. She knows what that comparison does. Maybe she doesn’t consciously select it because she knows exactly where to strike, but she has used it often enough that pretending she doesn’t understand would be generous.

My hand tightens against the edge of the counter. “Don’t do that.”

Her tone turns defensive again. “Do what?”

“Compare me to him every time I don’t do what you want.”