“It takes adjustment,” I said diplomatically.
“How did you do it?”
The question came out almost desperate.
“Like, how did you just leave and figure everything out? Mom and Dad said you’d come crawling back within a month, but then you never did. And now you’re here looking like some kind of boss woman, and I’m eating free cheese because I can’t afford real dinner.”
I felt a twist of something in my chest. Not quite sympathy, not quite satisfaction.
“I worked really hard,” I said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Because of your birthday thing?”
My jaw tightened.
“It wasn’t a thing, Beth. It was the final example in a very long pattern.”
She looked down at her plate.
“I know they weren’t always fair to you.”
“Do you?”
“I’m starting to get it now,” she said quietly. “College is kicking my ass, and when I call home stressed about exams or whatever, Mom just tells me I’m being dramatic. Dad says I need to toughen up. It’s like now that I’m not their special little girl living at home, they don’t care as much.”
I should have felt vindicated. Instead, I just felt hollow.
“I’m sorry you’re going through that,” I said—and I meant it. “But I need to get back to networking.”
“Wait,” she said quickly. “Can we maybe get coffee sometime? I’d really like to talk more. I miss you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, Emma. I know I was awful. I know I took advantage of how Mom and Dad treated you. I’m trying to be better.”
I looked at her—really looked at her. She seemed genuine, but I’d been burned before.
“Give me your number,” I said finally. “I’ll think about it.”
She pulled out her phone eagerly, and we exchanged numbers.
After she left, I immediately felt conflicted about the decision. I didn’t text her.
Two weeks later, my phone rang from an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered.
“Is this Emma Crawford?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Patricia Winters. I’m your sister Bethy’s academic adviser at State University. She listed you as an emergency contact.”
My stomach dropped.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine physically,” Patricia said, “but she’s in some academic trouble, and I’m calling because she specifically asked me to reach out to you. She’s at risk of failing three of her five classes this semester, and she’s missed multiple advising appointments.”
“When I finally got her to come in today, she broke down crying and said, ‘The only person who might understand is her sister.’”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t know how I can help.”
“She seems to think you could talk to her parents on her behalf,” Patricia said carefully. “Apparently there’s some family dynamic I’m not privy to. But she’s in crisis, and I’m trying to help her access her support systems—family support systems.”
The irony was almost funny.
“Tell her I’ll meet her for coffee tomorrow,” I said finally.
The next day, I met Bethany at a café near campus. She looked worse than she had at the networking event—dark circles under her eyes, chipped nail polish, the same sweatshirt.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as I sat down.
“Your adviser called me,” I said. “She’s worried about you.”
“I’m drowning, Emma. I don’t know what to do.”
Her voice cracked.
“All my life, everything came easy because Mom and Dad smoothed out every problem,” she said. “They talked to my teachers when my grades weren’t good enough. They made excuses when I didn’t make the volleyball team. They threw me parties and told me I was special and perfect.”
“And then I got to college and none of that mattered,” she went on. “I’m just another student who can’t keep up. And I don’t know how to fix things on my own.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you figured it out,” she said, eyes shining. “You learned how to survive without them. And I need to know how.”