Chapter 2

Three days before the memorial, my mother called and told me to come home for dinner.

"The whole family will be there, your aunts, your uncles, and Mrs. Carter and her family," she said. "Sophie and Mrs. Carter's daughter were classmates as kids. They were thick as thieves."

I didn't say no.

David drove me back. As he navigated the road, he kept glancing over at me. "Have you figured out how to handle this?" he asked.

"There's nothing to handle," I replied. "It's just a meal."

He stayed quiet.

*****

The old house sat on the outskirts of town, a three-story building with an osmanthus tree in the yard. Sophie had planted it 20 years ago. Now, it towered over the garden.

Every year, my mother would place a photo of Sophie beneath it, saying she wanted her to see how much the tree had grown.

By the time we arrived, the relatives were already there.

My aunt greeted us, scanning me from head to toe. "Claire, you're here. You've lost weight. Work must be running you ragged."

"I'm alright," I said with a tight smile.

"If only Sophie were still here. You two would have made such a lovely pair standing together," my aunt sighed. "What a crying shame."

I didn't bite.

In the living room, my mother was showing an album to Helen Carter. "This was Sophie in eleventh grade when she won the 'Model Student' award."

My mother pointed at the photo, her voice beaming with pride. "Her teachers always said she was the bright one. If she hadn't gotten sick, she would have made it into a top-tier university for sure."

Helen nodded repeatedly. "Oh, I remember. Sophie was such a good kid."

I stood in the doorway for a moment, but nobody noticed me. David brushed his hand against my arm.

"Claire." My uncle spotted me and waved. "Come, sit down. I heard you're doing well for yourself? What do you do again?"

"Architectural design," I said.

"Oh, she draws pictures," my mother interjected without looking up. "Nothing to write home about. Just drawing pictures."

David's grip tightened. I gave him a reassuring smile, letting him know I was fine.

I was the founding partner of Linwood Group Design. My work had won national architecture awards. My annual salary was enough to buy this old house ten times over. But in her mouth, I was just "drawing pictures."

"Come on, everyone, have a seat," my aunt called out, waving us to the table. "It's not often we all get together like this. Let's enjoy the meal."

Around the dinner table, the conversation always circled back to Sophie.

My mother reminisced about how thoughtful Sophie had been and how she used to massage her shoulders.

She raved about her grades and how she was an honor student every single year. She even mentioned how beautiful Sophie's handwriting was and how she still kept Sophie's old notebooks.

"That girl was one in a million," Helen sighed. "If she were still with us, she'd be doing big things by now."

"Tell me about it," my mother said, casting a glance my way. "She was cut from a different cloth than her sister."

My fork stalled over my steak. Under the table, David squeezed my hand.

"And what do you do for a living, David?" my uncle asked.

"I'm an architect," David replied.

"Oh, so you're in the same field," my aunt chimed in with a smile. "A perfect match."

"Claire probably got into that firm on his coattails," my mother remarked. "If she hadn't married well, I don't know where she'd be."

David's expression soured instantly.

"Mom," I said, setting my fork down. "I got into that firm on my own merit. David didn't even start there until two years after I did."

My mother blinked, then waved me off dismissively. "Fine, you're the big shot."

She turned back to Helen to keep talking about Sophie.

I picked up my wine glass, took a sip, and stayed silent.

After dinner, I headed upstairs to the old bedroom.

Sophie's room was a time capsule from 20 years ago. Pink curtains, textbooks still lined up on the desk, and a Backstreet Boys poster on the wall. In the nightstand drawer lay a leather-bound diary.

I stood in the doorway, staring at it for a long time.

"Claire?" my mother's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Come down for dessert!"

I looked away and turned to go downstairs. It wasn't time for that diary just yet.

On my way down, I overheard my father talking to my uncle.

"Sophie's boyfriend," my father's voice was low, dripping with resentment, "he ruined her life."

I froze in my tracks. Sophie's boyfriend. I'd only seen him once. He showed up at her funeral and then vanished into thin air.

My father had hated him ever since, blaming him for Sophie's illness, claiming he'd kept her out late and worn her out instead of letting her rest.

Was that really the truth?

I didn't know for sure. But I knew some things weren't at all what my parents believed them to be.