She said:
“She’s different.”
“Good.”
“You don't believe?”
“I believe you.”
“That’s not same.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“She needs to be different for you.”
“For Malik.”
“For herself.”
“Not to get me back.”
Zoe thought.
Then nodded.
Years later she told me that sentence stayed with Renee.
At seventeen, I agreed to meet.
Public coffee shop.
Dad drove but sat elsewhere.
Grandma Pearl offered to come.
I said no.
Renee arrived early.
She looked older.
Not drastically.
Just tired.
We sat.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then she said:
“I’m not going to ask if you forgive me.”
“Good.”
She nodded.
“I was jealous of you.”
I had expected jealousy of Mom.
Not me.
“What?”
“You had something with Marcus I could never have.”
“He was my dad.”
“I know.”
“I know now how ugly that sounds.”
She looked at table.
“Every time he chose your comfort over mine, I felt second.”
“You were supposed to be second.”
She looked up.
I immediately wondered if too harsh.
Then Renee nodded.
“Yes.”
“I was.”
“Not because I didn't matter.”
“Because I was an adult.”
“You were his child.”
“I expected marriage to make me equal to you in every situation.”
“When it didn't, I treated that like betrayal.”
I stared.
That was more honesty than I expected.
She continued:
“And Camille.”
“I felt like she beat me without being alive.”
“Which is absurd.”
“But grief is not logical.”
“Jealousy isn't either.”
“I kept trying to create traditions strong enough that no one would compare.”
“The tree became proof.”
“Your tree meant I failed.”
I shook my head.
“It wasn't about you.”
“I know.”
“That was exactly what I couldn't accept.”
We sat quietly.
Then I asked:
“Why did you say her stuff was junk?”
Renee closed her eyes.
“Because I knew it was cruel.”
Not anger.
Not accident.
She chose cruelty.
Oddly, that answer helped more.
I would rather understand an ugly truth than a polished lie.