I thought she’d said “You must play.” It would’ve fit—Bella teasing, me laughing, some silly board game waiting on the table. But her face was set, her voice cool.
“You must pay.”
The mug of tea in my hand went weightless. “Pay for what, Bella?”
She crossed her arms in the kitchen doorway like a guard. “For abandoning me.”
That word hit like a slap. I opened my mouth, closed it again, felt every year of silence fold over me. “I never abandoned you,” I said, careful, steady. “You knew me your whole life. I was at every birthday, every school play, every graduation.”
“You were always there,” she said, a bitter little smile. “But never mine.” She glanced past me, out the window where the afternoon light made the dust slow and golden. “Last year I found the documents in Mom’s drawer. The legal agreement. The clinic papers. Your name.”
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