It was the last place in that house where my mother felt alive. It was where she’d sat on the edge of my bed and braided my hair on the mornings I was too nervous to do it myself. It was where we’d whispered secrets during thunderstorms. It was where I’d cried the night she died, face buried in her old sweater, because it still smelled like her.
Victoria didn’t scream at me or insult me directly. She didn’t need to. She specialized in polite erasure.
The lemon cake disappeared. Holiday traditions shifted. Family photos changed, subtly at first, then blatantly. The first Christmas card after their wedding had Gerald and Victoria and Paige in front of a tree, smiling like a magazine spread. I was at the edge of the frame in one photo, and somehow that one didn’t make it onto the card.
When I left for college, I did it on scholarships and two part-time jobs. I learned to sleep in four-hour chunks between classes and shifts. I learned that exhaustion is a kind of armor—people don’t ask much of you when you’re already carrying too much.
Paige’s tuition at an elite school in Savannah was paid without hesitation.