I stepped away from the living room before answering.
Behind me, the television continued playing my interview. I could hear my own recorded voice discussing reclaimed timber while my real voice seemed to have disappeared entirely.
"What do you mean, whose house?"
Mom inhaled.
"The house on television."
I walked into the hallway.
"It's mine."
Silence.
Not disbelief exactly.
Something more complicated.
"Yours?"
"Yes."
"The whole house?"
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
"That's generally how houses work."
"Miranda, I'm serious."
"So am I."
I heard Dad in the background asking something.
Mom covered the phone, but not well enough.
"She says it's hers."
Another silence.
Then Dad's voice, farther away.
"That can't be the place she bought."
I closed my eyes.
Mom returned.
"Your father says the property you bought needed major repairs."
"It did."
"But this…"
"This is what I did with it."
"How?"
That single word carried years inside it.
How had I built the business?
How had I afforded the house?
How had I become someone whose work appeared on television without them knowing?
I leaned against the wall.
"Work."
"Miranda."
"What answer are you looking for?"
"I don't know."
That, at least, sounded truthful.
The program moved into the greenhouse segment. Through the doorway, I heard my friends laughing at something I had said during filming.
Mom lowered her voice.
"We had no idea."
"I know."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
I looked toward the guest-room staircase.
"I did."
She went quiet.
"Not about this."
"I told you I bought the property."
"You said it was an old house."
"It was."
"You never said it looked like that."
"It didn't then."
Mom seemed unable to understand how the two statements could coexist.
I remembered sending photographs during construction.
A foundation pour.
The rebuilt chimney.
The first finished room.
Sometimes Mom replied with a heart.
Sometimes she didn't.
Dad once responded three days later by asking whether I knew anyone who could repair Brooke's porch.
"You saw pictures," I said.
"Not like this."
"Then maybe you weren't looking."
The sentence escaped before I could soften it.
Mom stopped speaking.
Guilt rose automatically.
I nearly apologized.
Then I remembered the empty guest room upstairs.
I let the silence remain.
Dad spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
"Ask her what that company is."
Mom hesitated.
"Holt Ridge Developments?"
"My company."
"We thought you were doing consulting."
"I do development."
"But Brooke said—"
She stopped.
My attention sharpened.
"What did Brooke say?"
"Nothing."
"Mom."
"It's Christmas."
"No. You brought her up. What did she say?"
Mom exhaled.
"She said business had been difficult."
I looked toward the living room.
On television, the program was showing one of our commercial restorations downtown.
"Business is difficult."
"She made it sound as if…"
"As if what?"
"You were barely getting by."
A cold sensation moved through me.
"Why would Brooke know my finances?"
"I assumed you talked."
"We don't."
Another pause.
"Mom, what exactly has she been telling you?"
"Miranda, please don't make this into an argument."
There it was again.
The family reflex.
Any question capable of producing an uncomfortable answer became an argument.
"I'm not arguing."
"Your sister is under a lot of pressure."
"I didn't ask about her pressure."
"We're not doing this tonight."
"Fine."
I started to end the call.
Then Mom said, "Wait."
I stopped.
Her voice changed.
"Are those people at your house now?"
I looked through the doorway.
Megan had noticed me watching. She lifted her glass slightly.
"Yes."
"For Christmas?"
"Yes."
"You're having Christmas there?"
I frowned.
"Of course."
The line became silent enough that I could hear static.
"Mom?"
She said something so softly I almost missed it.
"Brooke told us you weren't."
I straightened.
"What?"
"She said you were probably going away."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"I invited you here."
"I know."
"And you thought I'd canceled Christmas without telling you?"
"We thought plans had changed."
"Did you call me?"
"No."
"Did Dad?"
"No."
"Then how did you know?"
Mom didn't answer.
I already knew.
"You asked Brooke."
"We were trying to help her."
"That isn't what I asked."
Dad said something in the background.
Mom sounded tired now.
"Can we talk tomorrow?"
I stared at the dark window at the end of the hall.
Snowflakes moved through the porch light.
"Sure."
"Miranda."
"What?"
"We really didn't know."
For once, I believed her.
That didn't make it better.
"I know."
I ended the call.
Megan was waiting in the doorway.
"Bad?"
"Weird."
She handed me my wine.
"What happened?"
"They thought I wasn't having Christmas."
Her eyebrows rose.
"After you invited them?"
"Apparently Brooke told them I was going away."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Did your mother ask you?"
"No."
Megan looked toward the television, then back at me.
"That's a choice too."
I knew.
That was the part I couldn't stop thinking about.
Brooke might have said anything.
But my parents had chosen not to verify it.
They had accepted her version because accepting Brooke's version was easier than asking me a question.
I returned to the living room.
The special ended fifteen minutes later.
Everyone applauded.
I bowed dramatically because the alternative was crying.
Then Caleb's mother hugged me.
She was nearly seventy and smelled faintly of lavender.
"You made something beautiful," she said.
"Thank you."
"Your parents must be beside themselves."
I smiled.
"They just saw it."
She misunderstood.
"How wonderful."
I didn't correct her.
Christmas morning arrived clear and brutally cold.
The mountains looked close enough to touch.
I woke before everyone else and made coffee.
Several guests had stayed overnight because the roads were icy. Shoes and coats filled the foyer. Someone had left a half-finished puzzle on the dining table. The house looked lived in.
I liked it better that way.
At 8:12, my phone rang.
Linda.
I almost ignored it.
Curiosity won.
"Good morning."
"Miranda, are you sitting down?"
I poured coffee.
"Should I be?"
"I just spoke to your mother."
I stopped pouring.
"What happened?"
"She called me."
"Why?"
"Because I told her how wonderful your house looked on television."
I put the coffee pot down.
Linda continued cautiously.
"She asked what house I meant."
I stared at the Christmas tree.
"She already knows now."
"Yes. Apparently she does."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth. I said I was talking about your place."
Linda paused.
"Miranda, she genuinely didn't know."
A small ache opened behind my ribs.
"I figured that out."
"I assumed they'd visited."
"They haven't."
Linda made a quiet sound.
"I shouldn't have assumed."
"It's fine."
"No, sweetheart. I think something is very wrong."
I said nothing.
Linda had known my family for almost twenty years.
She wasn't dramatic.
If anything, she tended to explain away other people's bad behavior.
"What did Mom say?"
"She asked whether you'd really had people there for Christmas."
"Yes."
"Then she asked who."
"Friends. Employees. A few people who would've otherwise been alone."
Linda hesitated.
"She sounded embarrassed."
I rubbed my thumb along the mug handle.
"Anything else?"
"She kept repeating something."
"What?"
Linda's voice softened.
"She said, 'We thought Miranda was struggling.'"
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
I did.
Or at least I knew where the idea had probably originated.
Brooke.
After we hung up, I remained in the kitchen.
Megan appeared ten minutes later wearing one of my old sweaters.
"Coffee?"
I poured her a cup.
She took one look at me.
"What now?"
"My parents thought I was struggling financially."
"Why?"
"Apparently Brooke has been telling them things."
"What things?"
"I intend to find out."
Megan set down her coffee.
"Today?"
"Right now."
I called Brooke.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Hey."
Her voice was casual.
Too casual.
"Why did you tell Mom and Dad I wasn't having Christmas?"
Silence.
Then, "What are you talking about?"
"They said you told them I was going away."
"I said you might be busy."
"That's different."
"Not really."
"It is when they use it as the reason not to come."
Brooke sighed.
"Miranda, why are you turning this into a whole thing?"
I closed my eyes.
"Because it is a whole thing."
"They wanted to help me."
"You needed groceries."
"Yes."
"They live eleven minutes away."
"So?"
"So helping you buy groceries didn't require canceling Christmas."
"You don't understand."
"Then explain."
She didn't.
I walked toward the windows.
"Did you know about the television program?"
The silence changed.
It became careful.
"Brooke?"
"I saw something online."
"When?"
"A few days ago."
"You knew it was my house?"
"Yes."
I felt something settle inside me.
"Did you tell Mom and Dad?"
"No."
"Why?"
"They would've made a huge deal out of it."
I stared at the mountains.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Why would that bother you?"
Brooke laughed once.
"You seriously don't know?"
"No."
"Because you're already the successful one."
I turned away from the window.
"What?"
"You have your company. Your projects. Your house. Everything always works for you."
"You think everything worked for me?"
"You know what I mean."
"No. I don't."
Her voice sharpened.
"Every time you accomplish something, everyone looks at me."
I sat down slowly.
"Who is everyone?"
"Mom. Dad. People."
"Mom and Dad barely know what I do."
"That's because I don't want to hear about it constantly."
The sentence landed harder than I expected.
"So you kept them from coming because you didn't want them to see the house."
"I didn't keep anyone from anything."
"You told them I wasn't celebrating Christmas."
"I said you might be away."
"You knew they believed you."
"That's their problem."
I breathed carefully.
"Why didn't you come?"
"I wasn't invited."
I frowned.
"Yes, you were."
"No."
"I sent the invitation."
"To Mom and Dad."
"To you too."
"I never received anything."
"Mom said she told you."
Brooke went silent.
Then she said, "She didn't."
For the first time since the conversation began, she sounded sincere.
I stared at Megan.
She had been listening from across the kitchen.
I said, "I'll call you back."
I ended the call and immediately called Mom.
She answered before the second ring.
"Miranda?"
"Did you invite Brooke to my Christmas dinner?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The same day we told you we couldn't come."
"How?"
"I called her."
"What did she say?"
Mom hesitated.
My stomach tightened.
"She said you didn't want her there."
I shut my eyes.
"What exactly did she say?"
"That you wanted Christmas private because business associates were coming."
I looked around the kitchen.
There were dirty mugs.
A child's mitten sat on the counter.
Someone had left a gingerbread man beside the toaster.
Private.
Business associates.
The words were absurd.
"Mom, I invited her."
Silence.
Then my mother began crying.
Not loudly.
That somehow made it worse.
"I know that now."
"No. You know because I'm telling you."
"Miranda—"
"I wanted all of you here."
"I know."
"You chose not to ask me."
She had no answer.
I heard Dad in the background.
Then Mom whispered, "I'm sorry."
I looked toward the stairs.
The guest bedroom waited upstairs exactly as I had prepared it.
Fresh towels.
Dad's coffee.
Mom's marmalade.
A handwritten card on the nightstand.
WELCOME HOME.
Something inside me hardened—not into hatred, but into recognition.
I had spent years waiting for my family to notice when I was hurt.
Maybe waiting was the mistake.
"Did Brooke know you were staying home because of her?" I asked.
Mom was silent.
"Did she ask you not to tell me?"
Still nothing.
That was enough.
I ended the call.
Then I walked upstairs.
I stood in the guest room for a long time.
Finally, I picked up the handwritten card.
I tore it once down the middle.
Not because I wanted to punish anyone.
Because I suddenly understood that hope could become a habit just as destructive as resentment.
When I returned downstairs, Megan was waiting beside the fireplace.
"What are you going to do?"
I looked around the house.
At the evidence of people who had actually come.
"I think I'm done waiting for them to choose me."
Three slow knocks sounded from the front door.
Megan and I looked at each other.
Nobody else was expected.
I crossed the foyer and opened it.
My father stood alone in the snow.
His face looked exhausted.
In one hand, he held a white envelope.
"Miranda," he said, "before you decide anything about Brooke, there's something you need to see."
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Father Arrived Alone With Brooke’s Financial Papers, and the Story My Family Believed Began Falling Apart
My Parents Canceled Christmas for Another Brooke Emergency, and This Time I Refused to Pretend It Didn’t Matter
Part 2 of 24
