She scoffed loudly. “Oh please, do not start pretending you are the victim.”
“The same party where you told everyone I was too busy to attend?” I replied, keeping my tone level. I had learned years ago that showing anger to Diana only encouraged her, because she treated every emotional reaction like a victory.
Her laughter crackled across the line. “Everyone knows you are jealous of Madeline and her success,” she said smugly. “You will never step foot in that beach house again. I made sure of it.”
Jealousy had always been her favorite accusation. It had appeared the moment she married my father and moved into our lives, and she used it whenever she wanted to twist reality into something that made her look innocent.
Behind my reflection in the glass I could almost see the image of the beach house itself layered over the city skyline. The wide porch. The pale railing worn smooth by years of hands. The endless line of the Atlantic Ocean shining beyond the dunes.
My mother’s laughter drifted through my memory like a warm breeze.
“Look at that wave, Rebecca. I swear it is bigger than you were when you were five.”
I blinked and focused on the present again.