Not confident.
Just frightened.
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
She shook her head.
“Because then Mom would think I’d failed.”
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I didn’t answer.
“She’d tell me I should have worked harder to save my marriage. She’d ask what I did wrong.”
Camille looked toward me.
“She’d look at me the
way she looks at you.”
Those words hurt.
Not because they were unfair.
Because they revealed how deeply our mother’s approval had shaped both of us.
I began to understand why Camille had taken credit for the anniversary celebration.
She desperately needed one thing in her life to appear successful.
Something impressive.
Something her mother could praise.
“So the party…” I began.
Camille nodded.
“I just wanted everyone to think I was doing okay.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I wanted Mom to be proud of me.”
Then she whispered something that made my chest tighten.
