Chapter 11
And suddenly the manic energy my mother had shown at dinner made perfect, horrifying sense. Margaret hadn’t just been defending her favorite child out of snobbery.
She’d been defending her lifeline. On some level she knew Vanessa was bleeding her dry, and the terror of her impending ruin had twisted her mind. Emily — with her thrift-store clothes and her trailer-park past — was a walking, breathing mirror of the poverty Margaret was about to fall into.
My mother didn’t hate Emily. She was terrified of becoming her.
I closed the laptop as the morning sun breached the curtains. Emily stirred, wincing as her cheek pulled against the bandage, and sat up, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders.
May you like
“I’m not going back there, Daniel,” she whispered, her voice raw. “And they are never being alone with Lily again.”
I sat beside her and took her hands. “You’re not going back. And neither am I.”
