She flinched. Not because my tone was cruel, but because it was direct. In our family, directness was treated like aggression.
She swallowed. “Your father told me you saw him.”
“Yes.”
“He said you said some… hard things.”
“I said true things.”
My mother’s eyes glistened. “He’s been carrying guilt,” she whispered, like guilt was a currency meant to pay me back.
I didn’t move. “Okay.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Cass is struggling,” she said.
I waited. I didn’t offer comfort. I’d learned comfort was what my family used to drag me back into the old cycle.
My mother continued, “She’s making restitution payments. She’s doing the counseling. She’s working a job she hates.”
I nodded once. “That’s what consequences look like.”
My mother’s mouth trembled. “She keeps saying she wants to talk to you.”
“No.”
“She’s sorry,” my mother insisted. “I know you don’t believe it, but she is.”
I stared at the wall behind her, at a patch of sunlight that made the paint on my hands look almost silver. “Mom,” I said quietly, “Cass has been sorry every time she got caught. That’s not the same as remorse.”
My mother’s shoulders sagged. “She’s your sister.”
“And I’m your daughter,” I replied.