“The one where you make yourself the victim.”
That almost took my breath away.
Victim. Such a useful word when you want to erase labor. Such a convenient word when someone has already decided your pain is manipulative.
“I’m not making myself anything,” I said. “I’m just asking if this is really what you’re doing.”
Kendra gave a soft sigh, the kind that always used to work on our mother when we were kids. “Ava, nobody wants a fight. We’re trying to move forward. Dad is gone. The house needs to stay in the family. Mark and I can take care of it. Mom can finally relax. It makes sense.”
And there it was.
The script.
Dad was gone. I was emotional. They were practical. The house needed stewardship. They had children. I had one suitcase in my room and a remote accounting job and too much grief to perform nicely on command.
I looked at Mark.
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe like this whole conversation bored him. Mid-thirties, gym-built in a deliberate, mirror-aware way, expensive watch, polished boots that had never touched anything dirtier than country club parking lots. He had entered our family six years earlier smiling too quickly and asking too many questions about money. My father disliked him on sight, which should have told all of us something. Dad was not a suspicious man by nature. Careful, yes. Observant, absolutely. But not mean-spirited. For him to quietly decide someone was wrong meant that person had shown him something ugly behind the charm.
