The accusation stung. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel of my parked car. I was outside the grocery store, and the world felt suddenly tilted.
“Trevor, I am trying to help her,” I said. My voice wobbled more than I wished it would.
He laughed. The sound was sharp and cold. “Nobody helps for free. Stop pretending you are the hero. You are the worst sister I ever had.”
Before I could respond, I heard my mother in the background. Her voice, unmistakably hers, was raised to a shout.
“She is ungrateful. She thinks she is above us. Tell her to stop playing the victim.”
The words knocked the air from my lungs. In person, she always thanked me. She kissed my cheek. She clasped my hands and told me she did not know what she would do without me. Now I wondered which version of her was real.
That same evening, I drove to her house in Redwood Springs, Nevada, hoping there had been a misunderstanding. I walked to the door with my heartbeat echoing in my ears. The porch light flickered. The desert wind rattled the hydrangea bushes.
My mother opened the door with a scowl. Her eyes looked like glass. Hard. Reflective. Unreadable.