For several minutes she talked about the hospital, my symptoms, whether I needed anything.
Then she set down her spoon.
“Samantha called me four times.”
“I assumed.”
“She’s very upset.”
I looked at Mom.
She caught herself.
“That sounded wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re upset too.”
“No.”
Mom frowned.
“I’m angry.”
The distinction surprised me.
But it was true.
Last night I had been humiliated.
Scared.
Confused.
Today I was angry.
Mom folded her hands.
“Samantha says the police told her there may be follow-up.”
“Okay.”
“She thinks you’re trying to press charges.”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
Mom looked uncomfortable.
“What would you want?”
I almost gave the answer I had always given.
I don’t know.
Whatever keeps everyone happy.
Instead I thought about it.
“I want her to admit I told her no.”
Mom blinked.
“I want her to stop saying it was a prank like that makes the word no disappear.”
“Hannah—”
“I want her to stop calling me dramatic for ending up in the ER.”
Mom lowered her eyes.
“And I want her to apologize without explaining why it was actually my fault.”
“That’s reasonable.”
I stared at her.
“Then why does it feel impossible?”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“Because we let her get very good at never doing that.”
Neither of us spoke.
That evening, my cousin Leah called.
Then Amy from the party.
Then Trevor.
Every conversation was uncomfortable in a different way.
Leah apologized for laughing before she realized I was hurt.
Amy told me she had sent her video because the whole thing had bothered her afterward.
Trevor admitted Samantha had spent the final part of the party complaining that I had embarrassed her by leaving.
“She actually said that?”
“Yeah.”
He sounded ashamed.
“Then when Jenny said you were going to the hospital, Samantha said you always do this.”
My stomach turned.
“Do what?”
“Make everything serious.”
Of course.
That was my crime.
I made things serious by experiencing their consequences.
At 7:42 that evening, Samantha sent another message.
Mom says you’re refusing to drop this.
I didn’t answer.
Then:
You are ruining my life over BIRTHDAY CAKE.
Then:
I said I’m sorry you got sick. What else do you want?
I stared at those words.
I’m sorry you got sick.
Not I’m sorry I did it.
Not I’m sorry I ignored you.
Not I’m sorry I laughed.
She was sorry my body had made her joke inconvenient.
A final message appeared.
You always wanted everyone to choose you over me.
My finger hovered over the screen.
For the first time all day, I wanted to respond.
Not emotionally.
Not with insults.
Just one sentence.
So I typed:
This isn’t about anyone choosing me over you. I told you no, and you decided my no didn’t matter.
I sent it.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Dann verschwand.
Er tauchte wieder auf.
Wieder verschwunden.
Schließlich antwortete Samantha:
Wie auch immer.
Ich habe auf das Wort geschaut.
Und irgendwie hat es mir mehr gesagt, als eine Entschuldigung es getan hätte.
Denn Samantha glaubte immer noch, dass das eigentliche Problem war, dass ich nicht zu meiner Wohnung zurückgekehrt war.
Die stille Schwester.
Die verzeihende Schwester.
Die Schwester, die sich im Badezimmer sauber machte, während die Party weiterging.
Sie verstand nicht, dass die Frau, die am Vorabend aus ihrer Wohnung gegangen war, nicht dieselbe war, die diese Nachricht jetzt las.
Ich wollte nicht in diese Rolle zurückkehren.
Nicht einmal, um meine Familie wohlzufühlen.
Vor allem nicht damals.
