I walked away from the living room before answering.
Behind me, my friends had resumed talking, though more quietly now. I crossed the kitchen and entered the small study beside the staircase, closing the door until only a narrow line of Christmas light remained beneath it.
"What do you mean, whose house?"
Mom hesitated.
"The house on the program."
I looked through the study's glass doors toward the living room.
"My house."
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind in which someone realizes the facts in front of them no longer fit the story they've been telling themselves.
"Miranda," Mom said carefully, "that's your house?"
"Yes."
"The whole thing?"
I almost laughed.
"No, Mom. I rent the fireplace on weekends."
"Please don't."
"Then don't ask me whether my house is my house."
I heard Dad speaking in the background.
His words were muffled.
Mom answered him, covering the phone badly enough that I heard her say, "She says it is."
Something tightened beneath my ribs.
She says it is.
As though verification might still be required.
Dad came onto the call.
"Miranda?"
"Hi, Dad."
"That place on television belongs to you?"
I leaned against the desk.
"Yes."
"When did you buy it?"
"Two years ago."
"Two years?"
"Yes."
"And you built all that?"
"Most of the renovation and expansion, yes."
Another silence.
I could picture him doing the mental arithmetic.
Two years.
Several invitations.
Numerous phone calls.
A Christmas invitation sent six weeks earlier.
"You never told us it was like that," he said.
The words landed strangely.
"I told you I bought a mountain property."
"I thought you meant a cabin."
"I sent photographs."
Dad didn't answer.
I remembered sending them.
Exterior shots during construction. The foundation. The beams arriving. The finished kitchen. The greenhouse frame.
Mom had replied to one with a heart.
Dad had written, Looks like a lot of work.
Neither had asked another question.
"I invited you here," I said.
Mom took the phone back.
"We know."
"Then why are you surprised?"
"We didn't realize."
"Realize what?"
She struggled.
I waited.
"How successful things had become."
There it was.
Not cruelty.
Something almost worse.
Ignorance.
My parents had no idea what my life looked like.
For years, I had interpreted their absence as disapproval. Apparently they hadn't known enough to disapprove.
"How did you think I lived?"
"I don't know."
"Exactly."
"Miranda, don't make this into—"
"Into what?"
She stopped.
I could feel an old reflex waking inside me. The reflex to soften my tone before Mom became uncomfortable. The reflex to rescue the conversation.
I ignored it.
"What do you think Holt Ridge does?"
"Property development."
"What kind?"
"Renovations."
"We haven't primarily done residential renovations in four years."
Mom became quiet.
I stared at the bookshelf opposite me.
The company had completed mixed-use properties, commercial restorations, vacation developments, and several environmentally sensitive mountain projects. We employed fourteen people directly and worked with dozens of contractors.
My parents apparently still pictured me sanding cabinets in inexpensive houses.
"Brooke said business was difficult," Mom finally said.
My attention sharpened.
"When?"
"I don't remember."
"What exactly did she say?"
"That you were having a hard time."
I stood away from the desk.
"Why was Brooke updating you about my company?"
"She wasn't updating us. It came up."
"When?"
"Miranda, I don't keep records of family conversations."
I almost replied that perhaps she should start.
Instead I asked, "Did you ever ask me?"
"Ask you what?"
"Whether I was struggling."
She didn't answer.
That answer was enough.
I opened the study door.
Megan stood in the hallway, pretending she hadn't been waiting.
I pointed toward the kitchen.
She followed.
Mom was still talking.
"We didn't want to pry."
"You'll drive across town on Christmas because Brooke needs groceries, but asking me how work is going would be prying?"
"That's unfair."
"Is it?"
"Your sister has been having a difficult year."
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Brooke's difficult year.
There had been many of them.
She was thirty-three.
I was thirty-six.
Yet somehow our parents still treated us as if I were the older child expected to carry her own suitcase while Brooke needed both hands held crossing a parking lot.
"What's difficult?" I asked.
"Her rent increased."
"So did everyone's."
"She's had problems at work."
"What problems?"
"Her hours were reduced."
"When?"
Mom paused.
"I don't know."
"Has she been fired?"
"No."
"Is she sick?"
"No."
"Was she actually without food today?"
"Miranda."
"I'm asking."
"She said she needed help."
That wasn't an answer.
I looked at Megan.
Her expression had changed.
She had heard enough to recognize the same thing I did.
Mom didn't know.
My parents had abandoned Christmas at my house to solve an emergency they hadn't examined.
"How much did you spend on groceries?" I asked.
"Why does that matter?"
"Because I'm curious."
"About three hundred dollars."
"Three hundred dollars isn't a Christmas emergency."
"It wasn't only groceries."
I became still.
"What else?"
Another pause.
"She needed some help with bills."
"How much?"
"I don't think that's your business."
I nearly laughed.
My family's boundaries had always been fascinating. Brooke's interpretation of my finances could apparently travel freely through the family, but asking what emergency had canceled my Christmas invitation was intrusive.
"Fine."
Mom exhaled.
"Miranda, we weren't choosing her over you."
The sentence hurt precisely because neither of us had used the word choosing.
"I didn't say you were."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking you made your decision."
"We thought you'd understand."
Of course.
That had been my assigned role for most of my life.
Miranda understands.
Miranda can manage.
Miranda doesn't need much.
What adults called independence in one child could become neglect when everyone found it convenient enough.
"I did understand," I said.
"What?"
"I understood the decision."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
Dad spoke somewhere behind her.
Mom answered him.
Then I heard Brooke's voice.
She was there.
That shouldn't have surprised me.
Still, hearing her laughter through the phone changed the temperature of the conversation.
"Is Brooke beside you?"
"She's in the kitchen."
"Put her on."
Mom hesitated.
"Why?"
"I'd like to wish my sister Merry Christmas."
"I don't think this is a good time."
"Why not?"
"Because you're upset."
I stared at the phone.
"I'm not going to attack her."
"I didn't say you would."
"You implied it."
Mom lowered her voice.
"Can we talk tomorrow?"
I almost agreed.
Then Brooke said something in the background.
I couldn't hear the whole sentence.
Only the end.
"…making everything about the house."
I straightened.
"Put Brooke on."
"Miranda—"
"Please."
A few seconds passed.
Then my sister's voice came through.
"Hey."
She sounded bored.
Not guilty.
Not embarrassed.
Bored.
"Merry Christmas."
"You too."
"Did you watch the program?"
"Some of it."
"Did you know they were featuring my house?"
A fraction too much silence.
"No."
I had negotiated enough contracts to recognize hesitation.
"You sure?"
"Why would I know?"
"Because it was advertised online."
"I don't follow architecture shows."
"Neither do I."
She sighed.
"What exactly do you want, Miranda?"
I almost said nothing.
Then I noticed how naturally she had moved into defense before I'd accused her of anything.
"I wanted to ask how you're doing."
"I'm fine."
"Mom said you needed groceries."
"Yeah."
"Everything okay?"
"Money's tight."
"I'm sorry."
Another pause.
My sincerity seemed to confuse her.
Then she said, "Thanks."
"You know you could've come here."
"What?"
"For Christmas."
"I wasn't invited."
The sentence struck harder than expected.
"Yes, you were."
"No, I wasn't."
"I told Mom the invitation was for all three of you."
"Nobody told me."
I looked toward Megan.
She couldn't hear Brooke's side, but she saw my expression.
"Mom said she invited you."
"Well, she didn't."
The certainty in Brooke's voice disturbed me.
"Did you tell Mom and Dad I was struggling financially?"
"What?"
"With Holt Ridge."
"No."
"Mom says you did."
"Mom misunderstands things."
"She specifically mentioned you."
Brooke gave a short laugh.
"I might have said you were busy."
"Busy isn't struggling."
"I don't remember every conversation."
The resemblance to Mom's earlier answer was almost comical.
"Did you know I owned this house?"
"I knew you had a place in the mountains."
"That's not what I asked."
"Why are you interrogating me?"
"I'm asking a simple question."
"I saw pictures."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"Before tonight?"
She became quiet.
My stomach tightened.
"Brooke?"
"What difference does it make?"
A great deal, apparently.
Before I could continue, she spoke again.
"Look, I'm happy for you, okay? You have your big company and your big house and your television thing. Congratulations."
The bitterness was unmistakable.
I had heard irritation from Brooke before.
Jealousy was different.
"You sound angry."
"I'm not."
"You do."
"I'm tired of everybody acting like you're some incredible success story."
I said nothing.
She seemed to realize she'd gone too far.
"I didn't mean it that way."
"How did you mean it?"
"Forget it."
She handed the phone back to Mom before I could respond.
My mother sounded flustered.
"Miranda, we'll talk tomorrow."
"Okay."
"Are you angry with us?"
The question was almost childlike.
I considered lying.
Then I looked through the windows.
Snow fell beyond the terrace. In the living room, people I cared about were clearing dishes from a table they hadn't been asked to clear.
"I'm disappointed."
Mom inhaled.
"I'm sorry."
I believed she meant it.
That didn't make it sufficient.
"Good night, Mom."
"Good night."
I ended the call.
Megan immediately asked, "What happened?"
"Brooke says she wasn't invited."
"What?"
"Mom says she was."
"Someone's lying."
"Or somebody misunderstood."
Megan folded her arms.
"You don't believe that."
No.
I didn't.
The following morning, I woke late.
My phone contained thirty-seven messages.
Most were congratulations about the television special. Several were from people I hadn't spoken to in years.
One was from Linda, my parents' neighbor.
Call me when you're awake.
I made coffee before calling.
Linda answered immediately.
"Miranda?"
"Morning."
"Oh, honey."
That opening was never promising.
"What happened?"
"Your mother called me."
"Why?"
"Because I mentioned your house."
I set down my mug.
"When?"
"This morning. She called to ask what I meant when I said the place looked beautiful on television."
My fingers tightened around the counter.
"She didn't know?"
"No."
"She watched the program."
"Apparently she didn't realize it was yours until I told her."
That made no sense.
"I told her last night."
Linda went quiet.
"Miranda."
"What?"
"She thought you were joking."
I stopped moving.
Linda continued carefully.
"She thought you were saying it was your project."
"It is my project."
"No. I mean she thought your company had worked on it. She didn't understand that you owned it."
I stared toward the living room.
The tree lights were still on.
"What did she say when you explained?"
"Nothing for a while."
"And then?"
"She started crying."
I sat down.
The satisfaction I might once have expected never arrived.
Instead, I felt tired.
Linda lowered her voice.
"She kept saying she thought you were barely getting the company established."
"Why?"
"I asked her the same thing."
My heart began beating faster.
"What did she say?"
Linda hesitated.
"She said Brooke told them."
I looked toward the silent house.
The answer from the night before returned to me.
I saw pictures.
Before tonight?
What difference does it make?
I ended the call with Linda a few minutes later.
Megan came downstairs while I was still sitting at the island.
She took one look at me.
"What now?"
I picked up my phone.
"Now I stop asking everyone except the person who seems to know exactly what's been happening."
"Brooke?"
I found my sister's number.
"Brooke."
My thumb moved toward the call button.
Then a message appeared before I could press it.
From Mom.
Miranda, please don't call your sister yet. There are things your father and I need to tell you first.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: One Lie About Christmas Opened a Door to Years of Stories My Sister Had Been Telling Behind My Back
My Parents Canceled Christmas With One Short Message, and I Finally Stopped Asking Them to Choose Me
Part 2 of 40
