Chapter 2 — The Invitation That Never Came

Barbara recovered before my mother did.

“That letter is being taken out of context.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.”

“I don’t need to hear it. I know how Mom talked.”

I lowered the page.

“Then you won’t mind listening.”

Nathan stayed quiet beside me.

He had told me earlier that morning he would explain the documents if necessary. He would not argue about whether my mother loved me or whether Barbara had meant well.

Those questions were mine to ask.

I continued reading.

I’ve told Barbara there will be no arrangements made without your permission. She may tell you that we have an understanding. We do not. Please don’t let her turn an old habit into a promise I never made.

My mother looked at Barbara.

“You said Mom wanted us here.”

“She did want us here. For years, she wanted us here.”

“That isn’t what the letter says,” I told her.

Barbara waved toward the house.

“Your grandmother bought this place so the family could be together.”

“She and Grandpa bought it because they liked the coast.”

“And they shared it.”

“Yes.”

“So you agree.”

“They also lent Tyler their car. He didn’t inherit the right to keep driving it.”

Tyler stopped rolling his suitcase.

“Why am I being dragged into this?”

“Because you’re standing at my gate with luggage.”

He pulled the suitcase backward.

My father moved closer to Mom.

“Maybe we should take a minute.”

“We’ve been taking minutes for half an hour,” Barbara snapped. “There are children standing out here.”

One of Megan’s boys tugged her sleeve.

“Mom, I have to pee.”

Megan shut her eyes briefly.

“Can he please use the bathroom?”

“Of course.”

Barbara reached for the latch.

I kept my hand on it.

“The little side gate. There’s a bathroom off the porch.”

Megan nodded.

She gathered her two boys. My cousin called his daughters over, and I walked to the narrow gate near the garage.

“Leave the bags here,” I said.

Megan set the backpacks against the fence.

I opened the gate and stepped aside for the children and their parents.

Barbara moved behind them, dragging a red suitcase.

I put my palm against the gatepost.

“Not you.”

“I’m helping.”

“They have their parents.”

“Claire, get out of the way.”

“No.”

Her suitcase wheel caught in the gravel. She jerked it free.

“You’re treating me like a stranger.”

“A stranger would have asked before arriving.”

She leaned closer.

“You always did enjoy embarrassing people.”

My stomach tightened.

Thirteen years earlier, she had said the same thing in Grandma’s kitchen.

I had been twenty-three, recently licensed, still wearing my clinic badge when Grandma asked whether I could help her understand a credit card statement.

There was a television she hadn’t bought. Gas charged on days she hadn’t driven. A deposit for a vacation she wasn’t taking.

Barbara had an additional card for household purchases.

When I asked her about the hotel charge, she told me I was embarrassing her in front of my mother.

Mom asked me to let it go until after the holidays.

Then the holidays came without me.

Standing at the gate, I moved my hand from the post to the latch.

“Wait outside.”

Barbara looked toward my father, expecting him to intervene.

He studied the gravel.

I shut the gate.

By the time the children came back, my pulse had slowed.

Megan thanked me without meeting my eyes.

Her older boy glanced up at the porch.

“Are we still sleeping upstairs?”

“No, sweetheart,” she said. “We’re figuring something else out.”

Barbara waited until the children were near the cars.

“There. You got what you wanted.”

“What did I want?”

“To make everyone uncomfortable.”

I went back to the main gate.

“Have you ever wondered why I stopped asking about Christmas?”

Mom sighed.

“We didn’t stop you from coming.”

“You didn’t tell me where you were.”

“You could have called.”

“I did. The first year, I called twice.”

Megan looked up.

“The second year, Mom told me the dinner had been canceled. Then Tyler posted pictures.”

“That was a small gathering,” Mom said.

“Seventeen people.”

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

I hadn’t intended to tell her that.

The word sat between us.

I could still remember enlarging the photograph on my phone, moving from face to face. I had counted the chairs, too.

There hadn’t been an empty one.

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“We’re not going to settle thirteen years standing in the road.”

“No. But we can stop calling them accidents.”

Barbara made a sharp, impatient sound.

“This is why people hesitate to invite you. Everything becomes an investigation.”

I looked at her.

Then I reached into the folder.

Grandma’s iPad had been on the kitchen counter when I arrived that week, plugged into the same outlet she used for years. She had given me the passcode so I could help enlarge her text and order groceries.

While looking for a contractor’s number, I found the family messages.

I searched my name.

There were more results than I expected.

I had made copies, preserving the dates and the messages on either side. Nathan had kept a second set.

Now I took out the first printed page.

“Apparently, the investigation started before anyone hesitated.”

Barbara’s eyes moved over it.

“Those are private conversations.”

“Yes. They are.”

Mom held out her hand.

I passed the page through the bars.

The message was dated thirteen years earlier, three weeks after the argument over Grandma’s credit card.

Barbara had written:

Don’t invite Claire this year. Ever since the card business, she’s been questioning every little thing. Mom listens to her, and we’ll spend Christmas fighting about money.

Megan leaned over Mom’s shoulder.

Dad came closer.

Nobody read it aloud.

They didn’t have to.

I watched my mother’s thumb rest beside the date.

“Now tell me you forgot.”

She opened her mouth.

Barbara interrupted.

“It was one message written when I was angry.”

“One message that everybody followed.”

“We needed a peaceful holiday.”

“With me missing.”

“You were an adult. You had your own life.”

“I was twenty-three. I wanted dinner with my family.”

The wind lifted the corner of the paper. Mom flattened it against her coat.

She kept looking at Barbara’s message.

I knew why.

The next reply was farther down the page.

I reached through the bars and moved Mom’s thumb.

“Read yours.”

Her face changed before Dad leaned in.

Under Barbara’s message, my mother had written:

Don’t tell Claire yet. If she comes, Mom will start asking about that money again.