“Then do it!”

“No.”

Silence.

I could hear Mom in the background telling Vanessa to calm down.

“You’ve spent your entire life believing that being loved means someone will protect you from consequences,” I said. “Mom and Dad taught you that. I’m not going to keep teaching you the same lesson.”

Her voice dropped.

“I’m your sister.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that matter?”

I looked at my grandfather’s empty violin case beside me.

“It matters enough that I wish you had remembered I was your sister before you destroyed something I loved.”

Then I ended the call.

Six months later, I moved to Boston.

I had accepted a fellowship with a major conservatory orchestra.

Eleanor’s foundation helped me acquire another rare Italian violin through a performance grant.

Not a gift.

Not charity.

A grant I had earned through my work.

Vanessa eventually sold her luxury apartment to cover the insurance judgment and her growing business debts.

Velle Fashion shut down before spring.

My parents refused to speak to me for three months.

Then Dad called.

For once, he didn’t tell me I should apologize.

He apologized to me.

Mom took much longer.

Vanessa never apologized again.