Chapter 3 - The Favorite Granddaughter
Lauren arrived at the hospital at 8:17 that evening.
I knew the exact time because I was staring at the clock when the elevator doors opened.
She walked toward me quickly, her heels striking the polished floor with sharp, angry clicks.
She was still wearing the cream dress she had bought for Emma’s birthday photographs.
Her makeup was perfect.
Her face was not.
“What the hell happened?”
I stood.
Caroline had taken Sophie downstairs to the cafeteria for pudding, giving me ten minutes alone.
I was grateful.
“You tell me.”
Lauren stared.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The camera belongs to you.”
Her expression shifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“I lent Mom my camera.”
“For Emma’s birthday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know she used it on Sophie?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I crossed my arms.
“Did you know Dad was planning to cut her hair?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you know they’ve been recording both girls?”
Lauren froze.
For the first time, real fear appeared.
“What?”
“Detective Reed said there are older recordings.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Some involve Emma.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
Suddenly the angry sister standing in front of me disappeared.
A mother replaced her.
“What kind of recordings?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he say Emma was hurt?”
“No.”
“Then what does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Lauren.”
She pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling Mom.”
I grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t.”
She stared at my hand.
I released her immediately.
“Police are investigating. Stop helping them coordinate stories.”
“I’m not helping anyone.”
“You texted me telling me to calm down before you even knew what happened.”
“Because Mom said Sophie had gum in her hair!”
“There was no gum.”
Lauren looked away.
“She lied?”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
I watched her face change as years of certainty collided with one fact she couldn’t explain away.
I knew that feeling.
I had spent my childhood adjusting reality around my parents.
If Dad shouted, it was because we provoked him.
If Mom lied, it was because she was protecting the family.
If Lauren received more attention, it was because she needed it.
If I felt hurt, I was too sensitive.
Family mythology could survive almost anything.
Until evidence appeared.
And we now had a memory card full of it.
Detective Reed joined us ten minutes later.
He asked Lauren several questions about the camera.
She explained that she had given it to Mom the previous afternoon.
Emma’s birthday photographer had canceled at the last minute, and Mom wanted a backup camera in case the replacement didn’t arrive.
“Had your mother used this camera previously?”
Lauren hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she have access to it at your house?”
“Yes.”
“Could she have copied files onto it?”
“I guess.”
Reed nodded.
“What about your father?”
“He barely knows how to use his phone.”
“That doesn’t answer whether he had access.”
Lauren exhaled.
“Yes.”
Reed glanced at me.
“There are recordings showing both Sophie and Emma during visits to your parents’ home.”
Lauren sat down.
“What recordings?”
“Mostly ordinary family interactions.”
“Mostly?”
He chose his words carefully.
“Several show your parents encouraging competition between the girls.”
I wasn’t surprised.
Lauren was.
“What kind of competition?”
“Appearance. School performance. Affection.”
Lauren stared at him.
Reed continued.
“In one recording, your mother asks both girls who loves Grandma more.”
My stomach turned.
“In another, your father tells Sophie that Emma is prettier because Emma smiles when adults tell her to.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Emma?” Lauren asked.
Reed hesitated.
“In several recordings, Emma appears uncomfortable.”
Lauren’s face changed.
“How?”
“She sometimes tells them to stop comparing her to Sophie.”
I looked at Lauren.
Neither of us spoke.
Emma had never told us.
But why would she?
Children learned quickly which truths adults wanted to hear.
Then Reed revealed the recording that broke Lauren.
It had been filmed six months earlier.
Both girls were sitting at the kitchen table.
Mom had placed two cupcakes in front of them.
One beautifully decorated.
One plain.
She asked Dad which granddaughter deserved the prettier cupcake.
Dad said Emma.
Mom gave it to her.
Sophie remained silent.
Then Emma pushed the decorated cupcake toward Sophie.
“No,” she said. “We can share.”
According to Reed, Dad became angry.
He told Emma that winners didn’t share prizes with people who hadn’t earned them.
Lauren covered her face.
“Oh God.”
The detective continued softly.
“Emma started crying.”
I reached for Lauren.
For years I had resented how our parents favored Emma.
Now I realized their favoritism had been hurting her too.
She wasn’t being loved.
She was being used.
Made into a measuring stick.
A weapon.
A child forced to participate in a rivalry neither girl had created.
Lauren lowered her hands.
“Why would they do this?”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I had asked that question my entire life.
“Because they did it to us.”
Lauren looked at me.
“What?”
“You seriously don’t remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Everything.”
Her confusion became irritation.
“Be specific.”
So I was.
The Christmas when I was nine and Mom made us stand beside the tree while Dad decided which daughter looked better in red.
Lauren’s dance recital when Dad told me not to be jealous because some children were born talented and others weren’t.
My high-school graduation, when Mom spent half the dinner talking about Lauren’s engagement even though Lauren wasn’t even there.
Lauren interrupted.
“They supported you too.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You always thought they liked me more.”
“They did.”
Her eyes flashed.
“And you blamed me for it.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
Because she was right.
I had.
Not consciously.
Not fairly.
But somewhere deep inside, I had spent years resenting Lauren for winning a competition neither of us had agreed to enter.
Just like Sophie might someday have resented Emma.
Unless we stopped it.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Lauren blinked.
“What?”
“I blamed you.”
Her anger disappeared.
“I blamed you too.”
“For what?”
“For leaving.”
I stared.
I had moved two states away after college.
Lauren stayed close to our parents.
“You escaped,” she whispered. “And I stayed here managing them.”
I had never thought of it that way.
Before either of us could say more, Caroline returned with Sophie.
My daughter stopped when she saw Lauren.
Lauren immediately crouched.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Sophie moved closer to me.
Lauren noticed.
Pain flickered across her face.
She didn’t approach.
“Emma wants you to know she loves you.”
Sophie looked up.
“She’s not mad?”
“No.”
“Her birthday got ruined.”
Lauren shook her head.
“A birthday can happen another day.”
Sophie considered that.
Then asked, “Does Grandma still think Emma is prettier?”
Lauren’s breath caught.
I knelt beside Sophie.
Before I could answer, Lauren spoke.
“Grandma was wrong.”
Sophie looked at her aunt.
“So Emma isn’t prettier?”
Lauren’s eyes filled.
“That’s not what I mean.”
She sat on the floor, not caring about her cream dress.
“You and Emma don’t have to be prettier than each other. You don’t have to be better than each other. You’re cousins. You’re supposed to be allowed to just love each other.”
Sophie stared at her.
Then slowly nodded.
That was the first moment I believed our family might survive.
Not return to what it had been.
Survive by becoming something else.
But the truth wasn’t finished with us.
Detective Reed’s phone rang.
He stepped into the hallway.
When he returned, his expression was grim.
“We found something else.”
I almost smiled from exhaustion.
“What now?”
“The audio recorder.”
Lauren looked at me.
Reed continued.
“It appears your father used it.”
“For what?” I asked.
“We found several recordings of conversations.”
“With who?”
“Your mother.”
My stomach tightened.
“About the girls?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the rest?”
Reed looked between Lauren and me.
“About both of you.”
The room went silent.
He explained that our father apparently had a habit of recording arguments.
Maybe for leverage.
Maybe because he distrusted Mom.
Maybe because control was easier when you could replay someone’s words.
One file had been recorded three nights earlier.
Dad and Mom were discussing Emma’s birthday.
They talked about the photographs.
About Sophie.
About her hair.
And then Dad said something that turned a cruel haircut into something even more deliberate.
He told Mom:
“If you want Lauren to keep bringing Emma here, you need to remind Claire whose child is second.”
Claire.
Me.
My father had not cut Sophie’s hair because it was tangled.
He had not lost his temper.
He had not made a terrible impulsive decision.
He had planned it.
Not just to humiliate my daughter.
To punish me.
And Detective Reed had one more piece of information.
My father’s recording continued after Mom left the room.
Another person entered.
A woman.
The voice was unmistakable.
Lauren stared at Reed before he even said the name.
May you like
Because she already knew.
It was hers.
