But if something makes you feel bad inside, and somebody tells you it’s a joke, you don’t have to laugh. You’re allowed to say that’s not funny. You’re allowed to be mad. Okay?”
Sophie nodded slowly.
“You’re allowed to say that’s not funny,” she repeated.
“Every single time,” I said.
I turned back around. I looked out the windshield at the road. My father was driving exactly the
speed limit, with both hands on the wheel, the way he taught me when I was sixteen.
“Dad,” I said. “Did you know? About Rachel? Growing up? The bike and the dress and all of it?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“I knew,” he said finally. “I knew, and I didn’t say anything. Your mother always said Rachel needed more attention. That she was the baby. That you were strong and you could handle it.” He shook his head. “You could handle it. That was the problem. You handled everything. So we let you.”
