Page 40 of I Summoned A Demon For A Date?!
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. This was Stephany's special talent, twisting the knife while making herself look like the victim.
"But I see now that was naive of me." Her bottom liptrembled perfectly. "Because some people can't let go of the past. Some people will always be bitter, always need to create drama."
Roger reached up to squeeze her hand, his face a mask of concern. The bruises on his neck stood out, dark purple against his skin.
"See?" Stephany's voice cracked with what anyone who didn't know her would think was genuine emotion. "She always ruins everything. Always has to make it about herself. She's nothing but a mistake."
The words struck like physical blows. Mistake. How many times had I heard that word whispered about me in this house? Always when they thought I couldn't hear, but always loud enough that I did.
Something hot and painful lodged in my throat. I'd spent my entire life believing it, arranging myself smaller and smaller, apologizing for taking up space that wasn't meant for me.
I felt Aldaine tense beside me, felt the air around him seem to crackle with barely contained energy. His fingertips, resting on the table edge, had darkened to that strange magenta hue I'd glimpsed last night.
Before he could move, before I could process what was happening, a new sound cut through the tension – the crisp, deliberate fold of newspaper.
My father, seated at the head of the table, slowly lowered the Wall Street Journal he'd been hiding behind. His face was unreadable as he placed it precisely next to his plate, smoothing it with one hand.
Dad never got involved in "women's drama," as he called it. He was the perpetual neutral party, the Switzerland of family conflict. It was easier that way. Safer.
But now he was standing up, his chair scraping across the hardwood floor. His movements were stiff, deliberate, as if each one required extraordinaryfocus.
I held my breath. Everyone did.
"Enough, Stephany," Dad practically growled, and I almost didn't recognize his voice. It wasn't the distracted mumble he usually employed during family disagreements, nor the placating tone he used when trying to smooth things over. It was clear. Firm. Unshakable.
"That's my daughter you're talking about." The words rang out in the silence, and I felt them reverberate through my chest like a physical touch. "And for far too long, I let this family treat her like she didn't belong."
My mouth fell open. Was this really happening? Was my father–of all people–actually defending me? I loved him to death but he was never one for confrontation.
"I was wrong," he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "I should have defended her years ago. I'm defending her now."
The dining room went so quiet I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. My chest felt too tight, like I'd forgotten how to breathe.
Jan sat frozen beside him, her face a mask of shock. In all the years since she'd married my father, I'd never once heard him contradict her or Stephany. Not once.
I waited for the explosion. For Jan to stand up and remind everyone who really ran this household. For the carefully cultivated facade of family harmony to shatter completely.
But instead, Jan's face underwent a complex series of expressions - surprise, anger, calculation, and finally, something that looked almost like shame?
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. And then, to my absolute astonishment, she nodded. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But a nod nonetheless.
"Rosie's right," the words seemed physically difficult for Jan to form. "We all failed her. And we won'tdo it again."
The world tilted on its axis. I gripped the edge of the table, certain I must be hallucinating. Jan had never, not once in all the years I'd known her, admitted to being wrong about anything. And now she was acknowledging she'd failed me?
Across the table, Stephany's face contorted with shock and betrayal, color draining from her cheeks. "Mom?" The word came out small, uncertain, a child's voice.
Jan didn't look at her. Instead, her eyes found mine, and for the first time since I was thirteen years old, I saw her clearly, not as the villain in my story, but as a woman who had made choices, some of them terrible. A woman capable of recognizing, even belatedly, those mistakes.
Roger cleared his throat, his laugh too loud, too forced. "Come on, everyone. This is getting a little heavy for breakfast, don't you think? It's just some old high school drama." He slung an arm around Stephany's rigid shoulders. "Water under the bridge, right babe?"
No one laughed with him. The elderly aunts were whispering furiously to each other. Rita was grinning openly. One of the bridesmaids was staring at Roger with unconcealed disgust.
"I think," my father said, still in that unfamiliar, authoritative voice, "that we've all had enough for this morning. Stephany, Roger, perhaps you should take some time to compose yourselves."
It was a dismissal. From my father. To Stephany.
I couldn't process what was happening. My entire worldview was rearranging itself, tectonic plates shifting beneath my feet. For so long I'd seen myself through their eyes as unwanted, inconvenient, not quite good enough. But now?
