Part 1: Two Different Stories
The next morning, my brother, Cole, called.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me,” he said, “but please let me explain.”
I nearly hung up. Instead, I stayed on the line.
“When I was nine, I asked where you were. Mom said you wanted to spend the summer with Aunt Diane because you liked it better there.” He kept going, quieter now. “She told me you didn’t want to come with us.”
I closed my eyes.
“Every single year I asked if you were coming. Every single year, same answer.”
I couldn’t find any words.
“You always seemed so distant whenever I got home,” he said. “I thought you were mad because I kept talking about the trips.”
“You never wondered why I wasn’t in the pictures?”
“I did. Dad always said you hated having your picture taken.”
I let out one short laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it hurt.
We’d both spent our entire childhood believing completely different versions of the same story. Neither of us had ever known the truth.
