Chapter 3
Tara came home an hour after Denise called.
Dad had spent that hour trying to reach her. When she finally walked through the front door, she looked surprised to find us waiting.
“I went for a drive,” she said.
“You told me you were visiting Denise,” Dad replied.
“I planned to. Then I changed my mind.”
She noticed Mom’s quilt folded over my arm.
“Why did you take that out of the garage?”
“Because it’s mine,” I said.
Tara put down her keys.
“I stored those things because your room was crowded.”
“You told Dad I asked you to.”
“I thought you’d be happier with more space.”
Dad moved closer to the kitchen table.
“Why tell me Maya wanted it?”
Tara opened her mouth, then looked at me.
I recognized the moment. Usually she waited until Dad left the room to tell me how badly I had made things worse.
He stayed.
“I remembered it differently,” she said.
“You remember every disagreement differently when Maya gets blamed,” Dad replied.
Tara’s cheeks flushed.
“You’ve been writing a case against me.”
“I’ve been listening to my daughter.”
“I listen to her too.”
“No,” I said. “You listen for something you can use.”
The words startled even me.
Tara stared at me.
Dad didn’t tell me to soften them.
“I want us to have a calm conversation,” he said. “But first you need to know that you don’t get to threaten Maya’s home again.”
“I was angry about the money.”
“You were wrong about the money.”
“I admitted that.”
“You haven’t apologized to her for searching her room or asking me to throw her out.”
Tara’s eyes filled suddenly.
“I’ve tried to make this family work for two years. Whatever I do, I’m the outsider.”
I felt a familiar tug of guilt. I had heard versions of that speech whenever I asked to keep a photograph of Mom where she could see it.
Dad’s voice remained steady.
“You can tell me you’ve been unhappy. You can’t make Maya responsible for fixing it.”
Tara looked at the quilt again.
“I can’t talk while she’s standing here judging me.”
I expected Dad to ask me to go upstairs.
Instead, he turned to me.
“Maya, you can stay or take a break. It’s your choice.”
“I want to stay.”
“Then stay.”
Tara sat down.
She gave me an apology. She said she should have checked the receipt before accusing me. She said she shouldn’t have opened my drawers.
I thanked her for saying it because I didn’t know what else to say.
Then Dad asked about the other incidents.
Tara admitted moving the picture frame. She said she had forgotten where the keys were. When Dad asked why she never told him I was right, she rubbed her temples.
“I didn’t realize she still cared.”
“I cared because you kept calling me careless,” I said.
Tara looked at me for the first time without anger.
“I didn’t think about it that way.”
Dad rested his hands on the table.
“That’s part of the problem. You need to think about it now.”
For the next few days, Tara was careful around me. She asked before entering my room. She thanked me when I cleared my dishes. Dad checked in each evening.
I wanted the house to feel settled. Instead, I found myself waiting for the carefulness to end.
On Thursday, I came home and found a large envelope addressed to me on the hall table.
It was from the college summer art program I had applied to in February. Mom had loved drawing, and I had sent my portfolio using the money I saved from babysitting.
The envelope was already open.
Tara came from the kitchen.
“It arrived this morning,” she said.
“Did you open it?”
“I thought it might need an answer quickly.”
“My name is on it.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to help.”
I pulled out the letter. My hands went cold.
I had been accepted, with a partial scholarship. The reply deadline was the following Monday.
Tucked behind the letter was an email printout from the program. It confirmed that someone had called the office two weeks earlier to ask about withdrawing my application.
I looked up.
“Who called them?”
Tara’s face went blank.
“I don’t know.”
The printout listed the caller as my stepmother.
I held it out.
“You told them I didn’t want to go.”
“I asked what would happen if your plans changed.”
“They wrote that you asked them to cancel.”
“I didn’t give final permission.”
“They told you only I could do that.”
Dad came in while we were still standing there. He took one look at me and dropped his car keys on the table.
“What happened?”
I handed him the letter and the printout.
He read both.
May you like
Then he asked Tara a question I had been afraid to ask.
“Were you going to tell Maya she’d been accepted?”
