Chapter 2 - The Silence They Couldn't Control
My father was the first person to move.
He stepped toward the painting with the microphone still in his hand, his face turning a shade of red I had only seen when something went wrong at his business.
“Rebecca,” he said through his teeth, “cover that thing.”
The microphone carried his words across the entire banquet hall.
A few guests shifted uncomfortably.
Mom lowered her phone.
I stood beside the painting, looking at the family I had created in warm shades of gold and amber.
Everyone inside that painted dining room looked happy.
That was what made the little figure outside the window so painful.
The painting wasn't an exaggeration.
It was an accurate picture of how I had felt for most of my life.
“I'm not covering it, Dad.”
He took another step.
“Don't embarrass your mother.”
I almost smiled.
For twenty-one years, my parents had embarrassed me in front of neighbors, teachers, relatives, and complete strangers.
Now, after less than two minutes of discomfort, my father considered the situation unbearable.
“I'm not embarrassing her,” I said. “I'm showing you what your jokes looked like from my side.”
Jason appeared beside the stage.
My older brother wore the same expression he used when a contractor missed a deadline.
“Becky, come on. You made your point.”
I looked at him.
“Did I?”
He gestured toward the guests.
“This is Mom and Dad's anniversary. There are people here from the business.”
I knew that.
I had designed the invitations.
I had spent three weekends organizing their slideshow.
I had even helped Megan arrange the seating chart.
And somehow, my brother was still speaking as though I had wandered into somebody else's celebration and caused trouble.
“Jason,” I asked, “what did you say when you saw the family photograph in Dad's office?”
He looked confused.
“What photograph?”
“The one in the lobby. Mom, Dad, you, Megan, and Baxter.”
Baxter was our family's aging golden retriever.
Jason blinked.
“What about it?”
“Did you notice somebody was missing?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Behind him, Ethan stood up from his table.
He didn't rush toward me or try to speak for me.
He simply moved closer to the stage, where I could see him.
That small gesture kept my hands steady.
Mom finally found her voice.
“Rebecca, sweetheart, this isn't the time to drag up every little disappointment you've ever had.”
I turned toward her.
“Then when is the time?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
A woman near the front table quietly placed her napkin beside her plate.
I recognized her as Mrs. Ortega, the photographer who had taken several professional pictures for Dad's company over the years.
She was studying my painting with an expression I couldn't read.
Dad noticed her looking.
“Celia, you know how family pictures work. Everybody can't always be available.”
Mrs. Ortega looked from him to me.
“I remember that sitting,” she said carefully.
My father tightened his grip on the microphone.
“Wonderful. Then you remember it was perfectly ordinary.”
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she said, “I remember asking whether there was another daughter.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
Mom made a small sound.
“Celia, please.”
But the photographer continued.
“You told me she couldn't attend.”
I felt a strange pressure behind my ribs.
I'd assumed my parents simply hadn't thought to invite me.
That possibility was painful enough.
But now I was beginning to wonder whether my absence had been discussed before anyone picked up a camera.
Dad gave an irritated laugh.
“Rebecca was busy. That's all.”
“With what?” I asked.
“You're always working.”
“Which day was it?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The portrait. What day did you take it?”
Mom's eyes moved toward Megan.
I noticed that.
So did my sister.
Megan was standing beside the head table, holding the printed anniversary program.
She had always been the easiest of us to read.
When she was pleased, everyone knew it.
When she was upset, she couldn't hide it.
Now she looked genuinely confused.
“Mom,” she said, “was that picture taken in October?”
Mom pressed her lips together.
“It's not important.”
Megan glanced at me.
“Wasn't that when Rebecca had her gallery opening?”
The words landed harder than I expected.
My first major gallery exhibition had opened on October 12.
That evening, my parents had told me they were attending Megan's recreational league game.
I remembered standing beneath the gallery lights, checking the entrance every few minutes.
I remembered the small bouquet Ethan brought me.
And I remembered Ruth standing beside my painting of the mountains, saying that she was proud of me.
I had kept Mom's text.
I hadn't been able to make myself delete it.
“Your game,” I said quietly.
Megan looked at Mom again.
“What game?”
Mom closed her eyes.
Dad attempted to regain control.
“This is ridiculous. We are not going to spend our anniversary discussing schedules from six months ago.”
But Megan wasn't listening to him anymore.
She walked toward the painting.
Her eyes moved over the carefully painted faces.
Then she looked at the dark window.
For the first time all evening, I saw something other than embarrassment on my sister's face.
I saw understanding beginning to hurt.
“Rebecca,” she said, “what did Mom tell you about October twelfth?”
I swallowed.
“She said you had a game. She said everybody was going to watch you play.”
Megan stared at me.
The music had stopped.
Even the banquet servers stood still along the back wall.
My sister looked at our mother.
Then she looked at me.
May you like
And in a voice everyone could hear, she said:
“Rebecca, our league was off that week. I didn't have a game.”
