Chapter 5 - THE WOMEN MY MOTHER COMPARED
Vanessa did not stay long.
Before leaving, she gave Emily one awkward sentence.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said at dinner.”
It was not a perfect apology.
But there was no but attached.
Emily noticed too.
After Vanessa left, we sat at the kitchen table.
“I still don’t trust her.”
Emily said it first.
“Neither do I.”
“But I believe that part.”
“So do I.”
Mom had compared Vanessa to Emily.
Emily to Vanessa.
Me to Mark.
Mark to me.
Even our children.
I started remembering small comments.
Mark bought his house at thirty.
Daniel waited until thirty-three.
Vanessa always keeps her home beautifully.
Emily is so good with patients.
Mark calls his mother every Sunday.
Daniel has always been more sensitive.
Each sentence sounded harmless alone.
Together, they were an architecture.
Mom had built a family where everyone quietly competed for approval.
Approval she could then withdraw whenever someone disappointed her.
That night, Mark called again.
This time his voice sounded strange.
“Did Vanessa come over?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That’s between us.”
He laughed bitterly.
“She came home crying.”
I paused.
“Why?”
“She said Mom used Emily to make her feel inadequate.”
“And?”
“And I told her Mom used me to make you feel inadequate.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Mark went quiet.
Then he said, “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Dad left us equal shares in the cabin.”
I frowned.
“What cabin?”
There was a silence so deep I heard the refrigerator hum.
Mark whispered, “Oh, hell.”
“What cabin?”
“Our family cabin.”
“Dad sold it before he died.”
“No.”
My pulse started hammering.
“He didn’t.”
“Mom told me it had to be sold to cover medical bills.”
Mark swore.
“She told me you signed your share over to her.”
I stood.
Emily looked up instantly.
“Mark, I never signed anything.”
He stopped breathing.
Then I heard papers moving on his end.
“She showed me documents.”
“When?”
“After the funeral.”
“What documents?”
“A transfer.”
My throat tightened.
“Do you still have them?”
“No.”
“But I might have a picture.”
I closed my eyes.
Our father had owned a small cabin near Grand Lake.
We spent summers there when we were kids.
After his death, Mom told me medical debt forced her to sell it.
I never questioned her.
Why would I?
She was grieving.
I was grieving.
And I had been trained to believe asking questions about money meant I did not trust my mother.
Mark called back ten minutes later.
He had found the photograph.
He sent it.
The document showed my signature.
It was not mine.
Below it was Mark’s.
He said he had not signed it either.
Then I looked at the current property record Mark had found online.
The cabin had never been sold.
It was still owned by a family trust.
May you like
And the trustee listed was Margaret Collins.
My mother.
