Then she reached out and wrapped her arms around my father.
I smile. “What’s going on?” I asked softly, inching into the room.
But they’re only looking at each other.
Mirai glanced at me and smiled wider. “Your mom—
But my father’s voice interrupts. “I need to call Tom,” he told my mother, rounding his desk. “All the promo needs to be changed for the new movie.”
I looked between them, coming to stand in front of the sofa, so they could see me.
“Oscar-nominated actress Amelia de Haas,” my father recites as if reading a billboard.
My mouth fell open, and I smiled wide. “Oscar?”
Really? That’s amazing.
“Well, no,” my mother teased, still focused on my dad. “What if I win? Then it’s Oscar-winning actress. You better hold off.”
My father laughed again and came back around the desk, kissing her. “My wife.”
They looked at each other, their eyes lit with excitement and bliss, and I stepped around, trying to catch their eyes as I approached.
I wanted to hug my mom and congratulate her. I wanted her to know I was proud of her
“Mom…”
“Go make some calls,” she told Mirai, not hearing me. “You know what to do,”
Mirai’s eyes met mine, the always-present pity still there, and then she cast a regretful look at my parents before she left the room quietly.
“Congratulations,” I said as I approached, keeping the smile on my face.
But my mom already moved away. “Alright, let’s get to Jane’s office,” she told my dad. “I’ll need to put in a statement.”
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” he said.
And they both left, taking the noise and excitement with them. Like I was a shadow. A ghost who walked their halls but wasn’t seen or heard.
I stood there, watching them as they tread down the hall and disappeared around a corner. I clasped my hands in front of me, trying to push away the lump that lodged in my throat.
I was happy for her. I wanted her to know that she was stunning, and I loved her movies.
I wanted her to know that.
Why did she never want to share the wonderful things that happened in her life with me, because she was the first place I wanted to run to as a child to tell her when a wonderful thing had happened to me.
Before I stopped trying.
I stood there, staring off. It’s okay.
It wasn’t about me. This was her day. I had no right to demand attention.
I heard the front door slam closed, the house, and everything in it, going still and silent.
Like nothing lived here.
Like, when they left, nothing did.
I blink my eyes awake, already blurry with tears. I sit up and swing my legs over the side, bowing my head and taking some deep breaths.
It’s early morning. I can tell by the blue hue of the light coming in through my balcony doors.
A tear catches on my lip, and I wipe it off with my hand. I still remember so many little things, growing up with them, that would never seem terrible on their own, but after years of conversations I felt like I was interrupting, occasions I wasn’t invited or welcome to, and affection that was so easily doled out between them that didn’t stretch to me… It all hurt. Everything hurt, and it kept piling up year after year until I stopped letting myself care anymore.
Or stopped showing that I cared.
I let out a sigh, tilting my head back, but then something catches my eye, and I look over, seeing a white bag on top of my bedside table. I narrow my eyes and reach over, picking up the worn paper sack that no longer felt crisp and new.
Is this…？
The bundle at the bottom of the bag fits in the palm of my hand, and I can smell the cinnamon bears before I even open it.
How did this get back in here? I threw the whole bag of candy out.
But now, black writing covers the front, and slowly, I unfold the bag and find a ray of light near me, reading the words.
Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.
I look over to my bedroom door, noticing it’s opened a crack. I’d closed and locked it when I went to bed.
Thoughts wash over me, but my heart isn’t beating fast. I should be mad. Someone came in here while I was asleep. Someone went through my trash.
Someone is trolling me on a paper bag.
But he’s not wrong. I rub my thumb over the letters.
The way it’s written. That’s why you’re not. It’s so childish but simple.
Standing up, I dump the contents back into the trash, but I save the bag, flattening it out and laying it on my chest of drawers. I don’t know if blaming my parents is a good enough reason for being such a miserable fucking person, but someone in this world gets me, and I’m not even offended they said I wasn’t sweet. I know I’m not, and someone understands why.