A clean snap inside me.
Not sadness. Not even anger.
Something colder.
I set the laptop aside and pushed myself upright. My wrist throbbed. My leg burned. But I stood.
“You broke my arm,” I said.
Valerie rolled her eyes.
“You fell.”
“You sent me into the attic after a double shift. You called me useless while I was bleeding.”
“That is not what happened.”
Grandma reached into the box again.
This time she pulled out a phone.
My phone.
Or what looked like my phone.
I stared.
Then I remembered.
The call with Grandma.
The day Valerie had walked past me and said, “Stop staring at it like a braindead idiot and fix table six. Useless girl.”
Grandma had been on the line.
Grandma pressed play.
Valerie’s voice filled the dining room.
“Stop staring at it like a braindead idiot and fix table six. Useless girl.”
Nobody breathed.
Then my own voice, smaller than I remembered.
“Please stop.”
Valerie again.
“The wedding is in six weeks. I don’t care if you have a cast. You live here free. Do something useful for once.”
The recording ended.
Valerie stared at the phone like it had betrayed her.
Dad looked at her, then at me, then at the floor.
For one impossible second, I thought he might apologize.