I reached for my phone.
Her expression changed.
I didn’t need a recording.
I didn’t have one.
I simply opened her text from the day after the call, the one she’d sent when I hadn’t replied quickly enough.
I turned the screen toward her.
It read: Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
Vanessa wants one evening where she doesn’t have to explain why her sister never did more with her life.
Nobody spoke.
Jonathan looked at Vanessa.
“You said that?”
Vanessa’s face hardened.
“I was trying to make a good impression.
You know what your world is like.
Donors.
Executives.
Boards.
I didn’t want Thanksgiving turning into some awkward conversation about elementary school worksheets.”
Jonathan stared at her.
“My world?”
She heard the danger too late.
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” he said.
“I don’t think I do.”
Dad slapped one palm against the table.
“Enough.
We came here because Jonathan has been acting like our family committed some crime.
Isabelle, fix this.
Tell him this has all been blown out of proportion.”
I blinked.
“Fix what?”
“Whatever problem you’ve caused with his partnership.”
Jonathan answered before I could.
“She hasn’t caused a problem.”
Dad turned toward him.
Jonathan continued.
“I found the agreement in your study.
You told me Isabelle was ‘just a school teacher.’ Then I verified her identity through public filings and Roosevelt’s website.
She didn’t contact me.
She didn’t sabotage anything.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“Then why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who you are.”
That question landed differently.
I looked at my sister, the woman who had known me since childhood.
“You knew who I was.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” I said.
“You mean why didn’t I tell you I had enough money to deserve a chair at Thanksgiving.”
Her face reddened.
My mother said my name in a warning tone.
I turned to her.
“Would I have been invited if you’d known?”
She didn’t answer.
