She called me twelve times the day her lawyer explained that.
I answered once.
“You’re destroying my life,” she cried.
“No,” I said. “I went onstage after you tried to destroy mine.”
“You could cancel the claim.”
“I could.”
“Then do it!”
“No.”
Silence.
I could hear Mom in the background telling Vanessa to calm down.
“You’ve spent your entire life believing that being loved means someone will protect you from consequences,” I said. “Mom and Dad taught you that. I’m not going to keep teaching you the same lesson.”
Her voice dropped.
“I’m your sister.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that matter?”
I looked at my grandfather’s empty violin case beside me.
“It matters enough that I wish you had remembered I was your sister before you destroyed something I loved.”
Then I ended the call.
Six months later, I moved to Boston.
I had accepted a fellowship with a major conservatory orchestra.
