We left both destroyed displays exactly where they were until morning.
Nobody had energy.
At ten, Dad came to my room.
He knocked.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
He sat on the floor.
I was in bed holding two pieces of the blue heart.
He looked at them.
“I failed you.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I knew Renee struggled with the way we remembered your mom.”
“I thought it was normal.”
“Maybe some of it was.”
“I kept assuming it would settle.”
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“Did she say other things when I wasn't here?”
I hesitated.
That was enough.
His face changed.
“Amara.”
“She didn't hit me.”
“That was not question.”
I looked down.
“She said sometimes you only agreed with me because you felt guilty Mom died.”
Dad went completely still.
“What?”
“She said you spoiled me because you were afraid I would think you replaced Mom.”
“Did she say this once?”
“No.”
His eyes closed.
“What else?”
“She said I used Mom to get my way.”
“Like with tree.”
“Other things?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I became angry.
“I did.”
Dad's eyes opened.
“What?”
“Not exactly.”
“Amara—”
“I said Renee didn't like when I talked about Mom.”
“You said she felt awkward.”
“Because that’s what you said.”
He stared.
I continued.
“I said she moved Mom’s pictures.”
“You said maybe she wanted room for hers.”
His face fell.
“I said she got mad when Grandma told stories.”
“You said everyone grieves differently.”
Every sentence landed.
I had not understood at the time that I was trying to tell him something larger.
Neither had he.
Dad pressed both palms together.
“I’m sorry.”
I wanted to say:
It’s okay.
That was my instinct.
Then I remembered Grandma.
It is not your job to protect adults from consequences of their behavior.
So I said:
“I was mad at you.”
Dad nodded.
“You should be.”
“I thought maybe you liked her more.”
His face broke.
“No.”
“I know now.”
“No.”
He moved closer.
“I need you to hear it anyway.”
“I love Renee.”