Brooke stepped toward me.
“Sophia.”
I turned.
For the first time that evening, there was no performance in her face.
“I really didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“I thought…” She stopped.
I waited.
She glanced toward our parents.
“I thought you didn’t care about those things.”
“What things?”
“Career stuff.
Money.
Houses.
All of it.”
“Why?”
She hesitated.
“Because Mom and Dad always said you were happier with less.”
Mom immediately objected.
“That is not what we said.”
Brooke turned toward her.
“It basically is.”
The room seemed to shift again.
Until then, Brooke had been standing mostly beside them.
Now she was remembering too.
Comments at dinners.
Comparisons disguised as compliments.
The story our parents had built: Brooke was driven, impressive, upward-moving.
Sophia was quieter, simpler, less successful but supposedly content with that.
It had been convenient for everyone.
Even for me, sometimes.
Being underestimated had given me privacy.
But privacy and erasure are not the same thing.
Dad looked at his watch, an absurd gesture considering nobody was leaving for another scheduled event.
“This has gone far enough.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He seemed relieved.
Then I picked up my handbag.
Mom’s eyes widened.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“To the house?” Brooke asked before she could stop herself.
James made a sound that was almost a laugh but managed to swallow it.
I smiled faintly.
“Yes.
To the house.”
Mom reached for my arm, then stopped short of touching me.
“You cannot leave like this.”
“I can.”
“People will talk.”
That sentence clarified everything one final time.
Not Sophia, stay.
Not I’m sorry.
Not we should talk.
People will talk.
