Page 80 of What Goes Around

“Then help me understand,” I said quietly. “How is any of this fair?”

He faltered.

“What do you mean?”

I drew in a slow breath.

“I mean she’s always been chosen,” I said. “In ways you never noticed. And in ways I learned to expect.”

He started to speak, but I didn’t let him.

“When I turned ten,” I said, “I picked out a plastic tiara from a party shop. Purple. Cheap. It said Princess in glitter. I wanted to wear it all day.”

His brow furrowed.

“Halfway through the party,” I continued, “it was on Apple’s head instead. She ran around like it was her birthday. She even blew out my candles before I reached the cake.”

His jaw tightened.

“I cried,” I said. “I asked for it back. I didn’t get it. When I went to Mom, she told me to be ‘mature.’ That it was just a tiara.”

I looked down.

“You were at work.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“And that wasn’t the only time,” I added quietly. “My things became hers. My moments became hers. And I learned to let go, because no one else ever would.”

Silence stretched between us.

When he finally spoke, his voice was unsteady.

“I didn’t realize.”

“No,” I said gently. “You weren’t looking.”

His face tightened, not with anger, but something far worse.

Regret.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant for you to feel second.”

I studied him.

“I don’t want apologies,” I said. “I want it to stop.”

He finally looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.

“I’ll do better,” he said. “I’ll be here more. I’ll talk to your mother. And I’ll make sure you’re treated equally. I promise.”

Then, after a pause:

“I gave your mom some money. You’re going shopping with her and Apple tomorrow. Both of you.”

I nodded slowly.

And let him believe that was enough.