She was twenty-six, one of Aunt Patricia’s daughters, and had spent much of the wedding trying to keep her two young children entertained.
“Mom’s watching the kids,” Rachel explained. “I told her I’d check on everyone.”
I thanked her.
She hesitated.
“Clara, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Has Vanessa been treating you like this since Uncle Robert died?”
Our father’s name was Robert.
Hearing it spoken in the hotel lobby nearly broke me.
I looked toward Grandma.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Not always this openly.”
Rachel pulled up another chair.
“What has she been doing?”
I thought about the previous two years.
The holiday invitations that came a week late.
The family messages where Vanessa referred to me as “Dad’s other daughter.”
The Christmas dinner when she introduced me to Adrian’s parents as her half-sister, then quickly moved the conversation to her mother’s family.
None of those incidents seemed enormous on their own.
I’d told myself Vanessa was grieving.
That she’d been under stress.
That I should be grateful she invited me at all.
But the pattern had become impossible to ignore.
“She’s been making sure I remember we’re not full sisters,” I said.
Grandma’s face tightened.
“Your father would have hated that.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe. But he isn’t here to tell her.”
Patricia lowered her eyes.
And that silence led us somewhere none of us particularly wanted to go.
Because my father had loved both his daughters.
