“At home,” she said. “In the safe.”
Mia muttered, “Of course.”
Dad looked at her like he’d never met her. “You stole from my daughter. In a hospital.”
Celeste snapped, “I prevented theft.”
“You’re choosing her over me.”
I said, “Stop rebranding it.”
Dad turned to me, eyes glassy. “I didn’t know.”
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“No,” I said. “You didn’t want to.”
Celeste grabbed his arm. “Babe. Let’s go home and talk.”
Dad pulled his arm away. “I’m going to get them.”
Celeste’s eyes went wide. “You’re choosing her over me.”
An hour later, he returned holding a small pouch.
Dad said, quiet and lethal, “I’m choosing my child.”
Dad left.
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An hour later, he returned holding a small pouch. His hands shook.
He poured the earrings into my palm.
The diamonds caught the light, and my whole body loosened. Like a knot finally cut.
I put them back in. Fingers trembling. Click. Click.
When I got discharged, I didn’t go back to that house.
Dad sat like he’d aged 10 years.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
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I stared at him. “Sorry she did it. Or sorry you let her turn the anniversary into a party.”
He flinched. “Both.”
“I need space,” I said. “From her. And from you, for a while.”
Dad whispered, “Okay.”
He didn’t argue. Not this time.
When I got discharged, I didn’t go back to that house.
I stayed with Mia. I blocked Celeste. I told my dad, “If you want me in your life, it won’t include her.”
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He didn’t argue. Not this time.
On the night of the anniversary, the one I wanted in the first place, I lit a candle in Mia’s apartment and played my mom’s saved voicemail once.
Just once.
She’s never touching my mother again.
Then I touched my earrings.
Same ritual. Different meaning.
Not begging for comfort.
Reminding myself I can protect what she left me.
And Celeste can throw all the barbecues she wants.
She’s never touching my mother again.
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