“You shouldn’t have needed it.”
“No.”
“You didn’t.”
I looked at him.
“That’s the point.”
Footsteps sounded again.
Mom and Dad approached.
This time they stopped several feet away.
Neither came closer.
It was a small thing.
But I noticed.
Dad cleared his throat.
“Can we join you?”
Ryan looked at me.
Not at them.
At me.
That was another small thing.
I nodded.
They sat on the far end of the bench.
For almost a minute, nobody spoke.
Then my father said,
“I owe you an apology.”
I waited.
He stared out at the water.
“I don’t think I realized how often I compared the two of you.”
Ryan answered before I could.
“You did it constantly.”
Dad flinched.
Mom looked at him.
Ryan continued.
“You made me feel good by making her sound like a failure.”
Dad rubbed his jaw.
“I thought I was motivating you.”
“It worked.”
Ryan’s voice was flat.
“That doesn’t mean it was good.”
Mom whispered,
“We thought Emily could handle it.”
There it was.
Another family lie people tell themselves because it sounds kinder than the truth.
I looked at her.
“Handle what?”
She blinked.
“The teasing. The comments.”
“Why?”
“You were always strong.”
I shook my head.
“Strong people still hear you.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
“No. I need you to really understand that.”
