They continue discussing my wardrobe, and I zone out. Part of me wants to rebel, to show up in my favorite T-shirt decorated with an avocado and ripped jeans, just to see Mother’s face.But another part, the part that’s always craved her approval, wonders if I should just go along with it all.
Maybe if I look the part, I’ll finally fit in.
Maybe she’ll finally see me as worthy.
But do I even want her to?
The thought of changing myself to please others makes my skin crawl. I’m a computer scientist, for fuck’s sake, not a debutante. Yet here I am, being molded like clay into someone else’s vision of perfection.
The stylist drapes fabric swatches over my shoulders to help determine my color season—cool winter—and I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Who’s that girl staring back at me?
And more importantly, who do I want her to be now?
The three women go over to the bed to discuss the fabrics lying there when my phone vibrates on the vanity. I walk over to turn it off, but when I see the caller is Morgan, I hesitate.
I should let her know I’m still alive.
I should say sorry.
She’s not one of the people I’m running from.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone and cross to my walk-in closet to take the call, closing the door behind me.
“He—”
“Amelia!” Morgan’s voice bursts through the speaker, a mix of relief and panic. “Where are you? Are you okay? We’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m fine. I’m back in London and… I’m sorry.” I run my fingers along the soft fabrics of my old dresses, trying to ground myself.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Morgan says, her voice softening like she’s talking to a spooked animal. “They told us what this is about. I’m sorry.God, I’m so sorry. But you shouldhave come to me. You can still come to me, you know that, right?”
They told her?
Whatdidthey tell her?
That they watched me?
That they stole from me?
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to tug at my hair. My fingers twitch, seeking that familiar, destructive comfort, but then I pull on a silk scarf instead.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
“He’s your brother, Morgan…” I whisper, the words heavy with unspoken pain.
He’s your brother, your kind, sweet brother, who I wished was lying next to me last night.
Who I needed to hold me so badly.
Mr. Donovan’s voice suddenly joins the conversation. “You could have come to me, dear.”
“He’s your grandson,” I whisper, my throat tightening.
Your grandson who said he loved me before they all broke my heart.
Morgan sighs, a sound full of frustration and worry. “We know they fucked up, they know it.Everybodywith a brain knows it. You could have come to us. We’re on your side. We’re here foryou,Amelia.”
