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Chapter 2

Author: Cocojam
She cut a large slice of cake for Claire, and Dad raised his camera to capture the moment.

I remember that camera.

Dad was always taking pictures of us with it.

One for Claire, one for me. Always the same pose.

Mom made two beautiful scrapbooks, too.

One for Claire, one for me.

They always said I was the troublemaker.

Now, there were several scrapbooks in the cabinet. All of them were Claire’s.

Life was so much easier for them without me, wasn't it?

As they flipped through the photos, the ache in my heart turned into a bitter sting.

There was Claire’s tenth birthday.

An outdoor barbecue at a fancy country club with her friends.

Pink balloons, a little tiara, a long table covered in perfect desserts.

Everyone looked so happy.

It’s been so long. I can’t even remember the other girls’ names.

All I remember from that year was the blizzard.

The attic was drafty, and Aunt Susan locked me in there to freeze.

I waited for her to leave, picked the lock, and ran to the payphone at the corner gas station.

I grabbed the receiver, ready to call for help.

But then I remembered Dad, who “died” in that blizzard.

I thought I had killed him.

I thought it was my fault Mom was broke, working day and night, unable to support both of us.

If I went back, what would happen to Mom?

What would happen to Claire?

I couldn't get the image out of my head.

Right before I left, I saw Mom in the empty kitchen, forcing down a piece of dry toast.

I cried and swore to myself that I would never be a burden to them again.

So I quietly hung up the phone.

And I walked back to that freezing attic in the middle of a snowstorm.

I thought if you did something wrong, you had to pay the price.

This was my price.

At twelve, Claire got her first period.

She curled up on Mom’s lap while Mom pressed a heating pad to her stomach.

Mom looked at her with so much love and worry, and made her hot cocoa.

That same year, I saw the blood on my jeans and ran to Aunt Susan, terrified.

She tossed a pack of cheap, scratchy toilet paper at me and sneered, “You’re bleeding? That’s God punishing you.”

At eighteen, Claire got into an Ivy League school.

Mom and Dad flew with her to move her in.

They took a picture in front of a building that looked like a medieval castle.

It had the school’s motto written in Latin.

I couldn’t even read the fancy script.

I never even finished high school.

That was the year my aunt took my ID for good to pay off the last of her gambling debts.

She forced me to marry the alcoholic, gambling son of the trailer park manager.

Back then, I accepted it.

I told myself over and over, I killed Dad.

This is the punishment I deserve.

But now I know the truth.

I thrashed my arms around, trying to knock the photos of Claire away, but it was useless.

Why did fate do this to me?

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Claire ran excitedly to open it.

A man stood there. Tall, clean-cut, in a sharp suit.

Claire looped her arm through his, calling him Liam.

The four of them sat by the fireplace, pointing at pictures in a wedding dress catalog.

Designer gowns, I remembered. So Claire was getting married.

Her marriage was so different from mine.

After a while, Mom got up and went to the master bedroom.

She opened the safe and took out two velvet jewelry boxes.

I recognized them instantly.

Great-grandmother’s diamond ring and grandmother’s emerald necklace.

When I was five or six, I snuck the necklace on when Mom wasn't looking.

Claire couldn't snatch it from me, so she ran to tattle.

Mom rushed over and took it off me.

“My little darling, be careful! You’ll break it!”

“When you two get married, you’ll each get one.”

My eyes were glued to the sparkling jewels. I spoke before Claire could.

“The necklace is bigger. I want the necklace!”

Mom just laughed and put the jewelry back in the boxes.

“Okay, the necklace is for our Chloe.”

Now, she pushed both boxes toward Claire.

She was smiling, but her eyes were red again.

“My daughter is all grown up and getting married. These were passed down from your great-grandmother. You keep them safe.”
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