“Because I’m Camille.”
Her voice broke.
“I’m supposed to have the perfect marriage. The perfect daughter. The perfect home. Mom tells everyone how successful I am.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Brian moved to Columbus. He sends child support when he remembers. I’ve been covering everything with credit cards.”
“How much do you owe?”
“Almost twenty thousand dollars.”
I stared at her.
She looked exhausted.
Not glamorous.
Not confident.
Just frightened.
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
She shook her head.
“Because then Mom would think I’d failed.”
I didn’t answer.
“She’d tell me I should have worked harder to save my marriage. She’d ask what I did wrong.”
Camille looked toward me.
“She’d look at me the way she looks at you.”
Those words hurt.
Not because they were unfair.
Because they revealed how deeply our mother’s approval had shaped both of us.
I began to understand why Camille had taken credit for the anniversary celebration.
She desperately needed one thing in her life to appear successful.
Something impressive.
Something her mother could praise.
“So the party…” I began.
Camille nodded.
“I just wanted everyone to think I was doing okay.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I wanted Mom to be proud of me.”
Then she whispered something that made my chest tighten.
“You understand that feeling, don’t you?”
I sat beside her.
“Yes,” I said. “I understand it better than you know.”
For a long time, we didn’t speak.
Then Camille turned toward me.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“For the seating arrangement. For taking credit. For what happened at the buffet.”
Her voice trembled.
“I knew you did the work. I knew the party was yours. I just didn’t think you’d care because you never seemed upset about anything.”
I swallowed.
“I cared every time, Camille.”
She began crying again.
“I just didn’t know how to say it.”
That evening, Aunt Ruth invited me over for tea.
When I arrived, the kettle was already warming.
