Chapter 9 - The Second Child in the Car
Julia returned to the mansion the next morning.
Alone.
She wore jeans, a cream sweater, and no makeup.
For several seconds, she stood on the porch without knocking.
I watched her through the window.
She seemed uncertain whether she was welcome.
Finally, I opened the door.
"Hey."
"Hi."
An awkward silence followed.
Then she held up a paper bag.
"I brought breakfast."
I looked inside.
Two breakfast sandwiches.
One with bacon.
One without.
"I didn't know what you liked."
"Grandpa always said bacon was proof the universe wanted people to be happy."
Julia smiled faintly.
"Then the bacon one's yours."
We ate at the old kitchen table.
I told her how Grandpa had refused to replace it even after the mansion renovation.
She told me about the little apartment she'd rented after college.
It was the first ordinary conversation we'd ever had as adults.
Eventually, she put down her coffee.
"There's something I need to tell you."
I waited.
"When I was seventeen, I found a photograph of us."
"Us?"
"Two little girls at a beach. You were holding my hand."
I remembered that photograph.
Grandpa had a copy.
Julia continued.
"I asked Mom why you weren't around. She said you chose Grandpa because he promised to leave you his money."
I looked away.
"She said you were always jealous of me. That you wanted everything I had."
"Julia—"
"I believed her. For years, every time someone mentioned you, I got angry."
She twisted a napkin between her fingers.
"Yesterday I realized something. Every story Mom told me about you had the same ending."
"What ending?"
"You were selfish. You were greedy. You wanted money."
Her eyes met mine.
"She was describing herself."
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So I reached across the table and took her hand.
Later, we returned to Grandpa's secret study.
Together, we read the 2001 notebook.
One entry described my parents' first attempt to persuade Grandpa to keep me.
Another described their request that he stop contacting them about visits.
Then Julia found a photograph tucked between two pages.
It showed our family shortly before the separation.
Dad was holding Julia.
Mom stood beside me.
But unlike the other pictures, my mother was holding a printed letter.
Julia unfolded the document attached to the photograph.
It was a business relocation agreement.
Near the bottom, a handwritten note read:
Only James, Rebecca, and Julia included in revised household budget.
Julia stared at it.
"They planned to leave you before they even talked to Grandpa."
I nodded.
"That's what it looks like."
She began turning pages more quickly.
"Why me?"
"What?"
"Why did they keep me?"
It was the question I'd avoided asking for twenty-five years.
Why had they chosen one daughter and discarded the other?
The answer appeared in a journal entry dated October 9, 2001.
Grandpa had recorded an argument with my mother.
According to his notes, she had told him that a younger child would adapt more easily to their new social circle.
She believed Julia would grow up without asking too many questions about the family's former circumstances.
I had already started school.
I remembered our old neighborhood.
I knew Grandpa well.
My parents feared I would talk about the people and places they wanted to leave behind.
Julia read the entry aloud.
Then she stopped.
"So they kept me because I was easier to control."
I looked at her.
"None of this means they loved you less."
She laughed bitterly.
"Does it mean they loved you at all?"
I didn't answer.
For years, I'd wanted to be the one they chose.
But looking at my sister now, I realized being chosen hadn't necessarily protected her.
It had simply given our parents another life to manage.
That afternoon, Julia showed me something she'd found in her childhood belongings.
It was a small notebook from when she was eight.
The pages were filled with childish drawings and short diary entries.
One page nearly brought me to my knees.
Today I asked Mommy if Leah can come to my birthday. Mommy said Leah has another family now. I wish I could be in that family, too.
Another entry was dated Christmas Eve.
I dreamed my big sister came home. She had a rabbit. I gave her half my cookies.
I covered my mouth.
Julia looked embarrassed.
"I forgot I wrote those."
"I still have the rabbit."
Her eyes widened.
"Really?"
I went upstairs.
In my bedroom closet, inside an old wooden trunk, lay a faded stuffed rabbit with mismatched buttons and one carefully repaired ear.
I brought it downstairs.
Julia took one look and began crying.
"I remember him."
"His name is Buttons."
She laughed through her tears.
"I named him that?"
"Yes. You couldn't say Benjamin."
We sat together on the floor.
Two grown women holding a worn-out toy that had survived longer than our relationship.
Then Julia said something unexpected.
"Mom called me last night."
I stiffened.
"What did she want?"
"She told me to sign a statement."
"What statement?"
"That Grandpa was confused during his final months. That he didn't understand what he was doing when he transferred the house."
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
"Did you sign it?"
"No."
She reached into her handbag.
"But I kept a copy."
At the bottom of the statement was a line that made both of us go silent.
It identified Gregory Vance as the person who had prepared the document.
May you like
The same man whose name appeared in Grandpa's journal twenty-five years earlier.
And the same man photographed outside the bank with my mother shortly before Grandpa died.
