She flinched. Not because my tone was cruel, but because it was direct. In our family, directness was treated like aggression.
She swallowed. “Your father told me you saw him.”
“Yes.”
“He said you said some… hard things.”
“I said true things.”
My mother’s eyes glistened. “He’s been carrying guilt,” she whispered, like guilt was a currency meant to pay me back.
I didn’t move. “Okay.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Cass is struggling,” she said.
I waited. I didn’t offer comfort. I’d learned comfort was what my family used to drag me back into the old cycle.
My mother continued, “She’s making restitution payments. She’s doing the counseling. She’s working a job she hates.”
I nodded once. “That’s what consequences look like.”
My mother’s mouth trembled. “She keeps saying she wants to talk to you.”
“No.”
“She’s sorry,” my mother insisted. “I know you don’t believe it, but she is.”
I stared at the wall behind her, at a patch of sunlight that made the paint on my hands look almost silver. “Mom,” I said quietly, “Cass has been sorry every time she got caught. That’s not the same as remorse.”
My mother’s shoulders sagged. “She’s your sister.”
“And I’m your daughter,” I replied.
The words hung there. My mother blinked, as if she hadn’t expected that angle.
She picked up the bakery bag and opened it, pulling out a pastry and holding it like an offering. “Do you remember when you were little,” she started, voice softening, “and Cass would take your toys and you’d just let her?”
My stomach tightened. “I remember.”
“You were so patient,” she said. “So kind.”
I stared at her. “You mean I was trained not to fight.”
Her hand froze, pastry hovering. “Elena—”
“You called it patience because it made your life easier,” I said, voice still calm. “You called me kind because I didn’t inconvenience you with conflict.”
My mother’s eyes filled. “We did our best,” she whispered.
“I believe you did what you wanted,” I said.
She set the pastry down slowly, like her fingers had lost strength. “I didn’t come to argue,” she said. “I came because… we’re scared.”
There it was. The real reason, finally uncovered.
“Scared of what?” I asked.
My mother swallowed hard. “Of losing her,” she admitted. “She talks like she has nothing left. She says she ruined everything. She says… she says she can’t see a future.”