Vivian's soft voice drifted through the speaker: "What's wrong? Did your older sister find out you came to see me and get upset?"
"How about I personally apologize to her?"
Mom's response was ice-cold:
"No need. Wherever I go, do I still need to report to her?"
"Old Mr. Fox, hurry up and hang up, stop talking so much. Just hearing her voice is annoying, like a debt collector. She can't even settle down for two days."
Before Dad hung up, I asked him:
"Aren't you and Mom traveling? Why does it sound like Vivian's there too?"
He coughed twice. I could practically hear him scrambling for an excuse.
"Oh, it's like this—your sister isn't doing well. Bit of postpartum depression. Your mom thought getting out would help her relax."
"Vivian's baby has a postpartum nanny. We found her through connections back home—cheap. You didn't want outsiders caring for your kid before, so your mom didn't mention it. Alex, don't overthink this."
After hanging up, I felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head.
Don't overthink it—yet they did exactly what would make me overthink.
Eight years ago, when Vivian moved in, I knew this family was going to change.