“And you never came,” Clara finished. “So we stopped listening.”
I felt my throat burn.
Emma squeezed my hand. “Our story isn’t about you,” she said. “It’s about Dad. It’s about us. About how we learned to make beauty with our hands when the world told us we’d always be missing something.”
Lauren’s face turned red. “Do you have any idea what I sacrificed?” she hissed. “You think acting was easy? I struggled too!”
I surprised myself by laughing—one harsh, disbelieving sound. “You sacrificed us, Lauren,” I said. “That’s not the same thing.”
Lauren looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time in years—and realizing she couldn’t bend me anymore.
Her eyes darted around, taking in our small apartment, the sewing machine, the worn chairs, the life built without her.
Then she straightened, like she could still win if she stood tall enough.
“Fine,” she snapped, shoving the dresses back into the bag. “If you won’t do it nicely, I’ll do it another way.”
“What does that mean?” I demanded, stepping between her and my daughters.
She leaned in close to me, her perfume sweet and sharp. “It means,” she whispered, “I know people. And I can make this messy. I can tell everyone you kept my daughters from me.”
Emma’s voice cut through the air, calm as glass. “Try.”
Lauren turned toward her, startled. “What did you say?”
