“So… you’ve been successful. Really.”
That sentence, coming from him, seemed both a compliment and a challenge.
My mother shook her head, still in shock.
“But if we had known… we could have helped you, we would have talked about you, we would have…”
“No. They wouldn’t have,” I interrupted firmly, but without aggression. “For years, I called and no one answered. On Christmas Eve three years ago, you didn’t even reply to my message. And now you’re uninviting me for Christmas because of ‘a special atmosphere.’”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“I don’t want any recriminations,” I continued. Just clarity.
Lionel raised his glass.
“Well, toast with us. It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”
But my mother glared at him.
“You can’t be on her side!” she exclaimed. “This is ridiculous!”
Lionel, without losing his composure, replied:
“What’s ridiculous is underestimating someone of your own blood.”
There was a moment of pure tension. My father clenched his hands, uncomfortable. My mother was red with anger. And I… I just felt a profound, almost strange, freedom.
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