Chapter 3 - The Night They Chose Without Me
For several seconds, I couldn't make sense of what Megan had said.
My sister had played softball for years.
First in high school, then college, and later in a recreational league that gave her an excuse to spend Thursday evenings with her friends.
Mom rarely missed a game.
Dad usually attended whenever business allowed.
I had accepted that arrangement long before my gallery opening.
But October 12 wasn't a game night.
It never had been.
“Megan,” Mom said sharply, “you don't remember every game you played.”
“Yes, I do.”
My sister's voice was quieter now, but it carried across the room.
“That was our bye week. We didn't play again until the nineteenth.”
Dad looked toward Gary, his oldest friend.
Gary had been grinning when he handed Dad the microphone.
Now he seemed fascinated by the tablecloth.
“Everybody,” Dad announced, “why don't we get dessert started?”
Nobody moved.
One of the servers glanced toward the banquet manager.
The manager quietly shook his head.
Megan came closer.
“Mom, you told me Rebecca's opening had been moved.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You said the gallery changed the date. You said we would go the following weekend.”
My throat tightened.
The show had run for almost a month.
My parents never came.
Neither did Jason or Megan.
For months, I'd believed my siblings had simply chosen not to support me.
Now I was discovering that at least one of them had been given a different story.
Mom folded her hands.
“There was confusion about the dates.”
“No,” Megan said. “You were very clear.”
Dad interrupted.
“Linda, you don't have to defend every little scheduling mistake.”
His words were meant to protect her.
Instead, they made her look even more frightened.
Mrs. Ortega stepped away from the front table.
“I should probably say something,” she said.
Dad shook his head.
“Celia, this is a private family matter.”
She looked around at the hundred or so guests.
“Then perhaps it shouldn't have been discussed on a microphone.”
Someone near the back murmured agreement.
Mrs. Ortega took a slow breath.
“The portrait session was October twelfth. I remember because I had another booking canceled that afternoon. Your family took the available appointment.”
I looked at Dad.
“You had a family photograph taken on the night of my gallery opening?”
He didn't answer.
Jason rubbed his forehead.
“Dad, I thought Rebecca couldn't make it.”
Mom turned toward him.
“Jason, please.”
He ignored her.
“You told me she didn't want to be included.”
The words struck somewhere deep inside me.
I'd spent years believing my family didn't notice when I was missing.
Now I was hearing that they had apparently discussed my absence in advance.
“Who told you that?” I asked.
Jason looked at Mom.
She stared at the floor.
Dad finally spoke.
“Rebecca, you have your own life. You don't come to everything we do.”
“Neither does Jason,” I said. “Neither does Megan. But they're in the picture.”
“That's different.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the crowd.
“Because the photograph was for the company.”
I stared at him.
“Then why is it a portrait of your children and the dog?”
His expression hardened.
“Because Jason works with me, and Megan has always been involved in our community events.”
“And I'm not involved because I'm an artist?”
“You've made it clear that our business isn't your world.”
I thought about the invitations I'd designed for his company's holiday parties.
The logo I'd once helped straighten on a brochure when a graphic designer made a mistake.
The weekends I'd spent painting signs for charity auctions Dad sponsored.
Apparently, those things counted when he needed them.
They didn't count when a photographer arrived.
Ethan moved beside the stage.
“Rebecca,” he said gently, “you don't have to keep explaining yourself.”
I nodded.
But I wasn't ready to leave.
Not yet.
“Jason,” I asked, “did you know my show was that night?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me more than an immediate answer would have.
“I saw your invitation,” he admitted.
“You saw the date?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you say anything?”
He swallowed.
“Mom said you were having some disagreement with Dad. She said you preferred doing your own thing.”
I felt the familiar sting of that phrase.
Doing your own thing.
It was what my parents called every decision I made that didn't resemble theirs.
Moving into my little studio apartment.
Working as a muralist.
Choosing Ethan, a public school music teacher, instead of someone Dad knew through business.
Every independent choice became evidence that I wanted to be separate.
I hadn't understood how useful that explanation had become.
Mom's voice trembled.
“I was trying to keep everybody happy.”
I looked directly at her.
“By telling everyone I didn't want to be part of the family?”
She started crying.
A year earlier, her tears would have been enough to make me apologize.
This time, they made me terribly sad.
But I stayed where I was.
Jason stepped between us.
“I need to say something.”
Dad looked furious.
“Not now.”
“Yes, now.”
My brother glanced at Mrs. Ortega.
“When I helped arrange that photo session, Mom asked me to confirm how many people would be in the picture.”
I waited.
Jason looked down at his shoes.
“I asked about Rebecca. Mom said she'd handle it.”
He paused.
“Then she had me send the photographer the final details.”
Mom whispered his name.
Jason shook his head.
“I didn't know you were telling Rebecca we were somewhere else.”
“Jason,” Dad warned.
But my brother continued.
“I should have questioned it. I didn't.”
The room remained silent.
For once, nobody was looking at me as though I had created the problem.
They were looking at the people who had helped create it.
I stepped down from the stage.
Ethan reached for my hand.
Then Jason said something that stopped me.
“There was a note on the booking instructions, Rebecca.”
I turned.
“What note?”
He looked at our parents, then back at me.
“Mom wanted the photograph arranged a certain way. She specifically asked me to write it down.”
I stared at him.
May you like
Jason's voice broke.
“Four people and the dog. No additional family members.”
