The responses stunned me.
My cousin Rachel called in tears. She said, “I remember Thanksgiving when we were kids. Your mom gave Vanessa the new dress and made you wear the one with the broken zipper.”
My uncle Mark said, “Your father has always treated love like a ranking system.”
Even my grandmother’s old neighbor, Mrs. Bell, messaged me through Facebook: Your mother always favored Vanessa. I am sorry nobody said it when you were little.
Every message hurt, but each one also unlocked something inside me.
I had not imagined it.
I had not been dramatic.
I had not been ungrateful.
The Chain on the Door
Two weeks later, my father came to my apartment.
He did not call ahead. He simply knocked, hard and impatient, the same way he had knocked on my bedroom door when I was a teenager and wanted privacy.
I opened the door but left the chain lock fastened.
