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And I don’t think I care.
The words spill out easier than I thought they would, coaxed by gentle fingers threading through my hair and encouraging, understanding eyes. When I'm done, the room settles into silence. Not awkward or uncomfortable, just... heavy. Loaded. Charged with whatever emotion pours off Luna in spades, tell-tale squirming letting me know she's struggling to reign in whatever thoughts are running rampant.
“Whatever you wanna say,” I reassure her gently, “you can say it.”
“I kinda hate your mom.”
“So do I, sometimes. But my dad, my grandparents... they're not exactly easy people to be around. It’s hard for us but it was harder for her.”
“That's even worse,” Luna protests, her nails digging into my shoulders. “She knew they were awful and she still left you with them.”
“She didn't really have a choice.”
“Why do you make excuses for her?”
“She's my mom.”
“She can be your mom and still be a shit person who doesn't deserve you.”
“I don't think I have the energy to hold a grudge.” It's hard when you haven’t seen the person you resent since before you hit puberty. And it's not like I had a bad childhood, exactly. Just a messy one. And out of all of it, I got my sisters. The rest doesn’t matter.
Luna shifts, careful as she asks, “And your dad?”
I snort. The man I’ve seen maybe a dozen times in my life doesn’t deserve that title, not even nearly. I used to get birthday cards, but they trailed off when I turned... thirteen, maybe? Not long after Mom left. And I'm the lucky one; you go down the line of sisters and the number of visits dwindle. I don't think he's seen Eliza more than twice, and not since she was a toddler.
Dickhead.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Luna starts quietly, entwining our fingers, “my dad's an asshole too. Or, at least I think he is. I'm pretty sure a man abandoning his pregnant girlfriend and not wanting to know his kid would qualify as asshole-ish behavior.”
“Think we turned out pretty okay without them.”
“Yeah,” Luna smiles, “I guess we did.”
* * *
I had a weird dream last night.
Well, more of a memory than a dream. Presumably brought on by talking about my parents with someone other than my sisters for the first time in... well, forever. Whatever brought it on, when I got home from my impromptu weekend in New York, all but collapsed into bed and drifted off, I was suddenly a kid again.
Twelve years old, freshly abandoned, one of the five newest inhabitants of Serenity Ranch.
The storm raging outside mimics the dark attitude of my grandparents, their arguing almost drowning out the loud cracks of thunder. They’re fighting about us, of course, and doing very little to hide it. Not even the pillow held over my head is enough to drown out all the reasons why they should ever have agreed to take care of us. How we’re nothing but a drain on them. How Lux is rude and Eliza is too quiet and the twins are too reliant on each other and I look too much like Mom.
Funny how they've learned all this without spending any actual time in our presence.
I jump when my bedroom door creaks open, half expecting my grandmother to storm in and announce I need to leave immediately, storm be damned. Instead, the light seeping in from the hallway illuminates four little figures creeping toward my bed.
I sit up with a sigh. “Can't sleep either?”
“Too loud.” Lux climbs up and wriggles in beside me, and the other three follow, Eliza plopping herself on my lap while the twins sandwich themselves in by our feet.
Grace wraps herself around my leg, her head resting on my knee. “They hate us.”
“They don't hate us.” Hate is a strong word. Heavy disdain might be more appropriate.
Eliza's little face peers up at me, brown eyes wide and confused. “She keeps calling me Elizabeth.”
“She calls me Charlotte,” Lottie chimes in, and the utter disgust on her face almost makes me laugh. I don't think Lottie even knew her full name until we met our grandparents for the first time and, just like they do know, they insisted on calling all of us by our full names. Apparently, nicknames are too 'common' for Jacksons.
