When the Forgotten Daughter Rises Chapter 07

When the Forgotten Daughter Rises Chapter 07

Coming home doesn’t make things easier now that they know the truth.

It only makes everything harder.

Because once they know, all the details they never noticed before start surfacing, one after another.

Sometimes Mom sits in the living room, staring into space, and suddenly remembers something.

Like Ellie’s eighteenth birthday.

“When’s Ellie’s birthday?”

Dad looks up and thinks for a long moment.

“Somewhere in the fall? September or October?”

“I can’t remember either.” Mom’s voice is quiet. “I’ve never forgotten Lily’s birthday. Every year, I start

preparing a month in advance.”

She pauses before asking, “When was the last time I actually celebrated Ellie’s birthday?”

They look at each other. Neither of them answers.

Lily is sitting nearby doing her homework when her pen suddenly stops moving.

“Elena’s birthday is July 12.”

She doesn’t look up, “She said Mom always forgets, so she asked me to remember it for her.”

The living room falls silent for a long time.

Mom slowly gets to her feet and walks into my room.

It still looks exactly the way it did the day I left. She hasn’t touched anything.

She opens my desk drawer and searches through it layer by layer until, at the very bottom, she finds several

sheets of paper folded together.

They’re awards.

First place in my tenth–grade class. Third place in my eleventh–grade class. Second place in the citywide Physics Competition. An Outstanding Student Award.

Every certificate has creases in it, as if it has been folded over and over, then carefully unfolded.

On the first–place certificate, there is still a faint brown grease stain.

Mom stares at it for a long time before suddenly remembering.

That year, I bring the certificate home and leave it on the dining table.

The next morning, Mom makes steak for breakfast and casually places the plate right on top of it.

When I come home and see it, I say nothing.

I simply wipe the grease off the certificate and put it away.

After that, I never bring another award out for my family to see.

Mom holds the certificates in both hands. The edges of the paper are already starting to yellow.

Then she suddenly remembers what Mr. Wilson told her.

“She doesn’t talk much, but her grades have always been excellent.”

Quiet. Consistently good grades.

Somehow, those two things become the label she gives this daughter.

Easy.

But what does “easy” really mean?

It means she doesn’t need much attention. She doesn’t cause problems. It means Mom can give all her time

and energy to the other child because this one will never make her worry.

But not causing problems doesn’t mean she doesn’t need to be seen.

Mom silently straightens the certificates and puts them back in the drawer.

When she walks out of the room, Lily is standing in the hallway, her textbooks held against her chest. Her

expression is so complicated that it’s impossible to read.

“Mom…”

Mom looks up.

“Does Elena hate us?”

Mom looks at her and slowly shakes her head, “No. She doesn’t hate us.”

She is silent for a moment before continuing.

“If she hated us, she wouldn’t have left so quietly.”

Sometimes, not being hated is more frightening than being hated.

It means giving up.

It means a child has completely stopped expecting anything from her own family.

That night, Mom can’t sleep.

She lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, while the past eighteen years play through her mind like a slideshow, one frame after another.

She doesn’t go to Ellie’s first–grade parent–teacher conference because Lily has a fever that day, and she has to take her to the doctor.

She doesn’t go to Ellie’s middle school graduation either because she is busy signing Lily up for a summer math program.

During Ellie’s three years of high school, how many times does she actually go to school?

Once? Twice? Or maybe not even once?

She can’t remember.

She can’t even remember what Ellie’s homeroom teacher looks like. Until the day she makes that phone call, she doesn’t even know his last name without searching through an old contact list.

But she knows every one of Lily’s teachers.

She sits in the front row at every parent–teacher conference. Whenever Lily’s grades come out, she is always

the first to know.

Two daughters.

One grows up in the palm of her hand, while the other grows up alone in a shadow she never notices.

She grows up. And then she leaves.

She leaves so quietly, so completely, that she doesn’t even leave behind a single goodbye.