We clinked glasses, and I felt something settle inside me.
I was going to be okay. Better than okay.
I was going to thrive.
The scholarship news somehow reached my parents. I don’t know who told them—maybe Ashley, maybe some other mutual connection from high school.
In early May, my mother called from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Emma, we heard about your scholarship,” she said. Her voice was strained, artificial. I could hear the effort it took for her to sound pleased.
“Thanks,” I said carefully.
“We’d love to take you out to celebrate,” she continued. “A family dinner, just like we used to do.”
Like we used to do.
The rewriting of history was breathtaking. We’d never done family dinners to celebrate my achievements. Those had always been reserved for Bethy’s accomplishments—real or imagined.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
“Emma, please. It’s been almost a year. Don’t you think it’s time we move past this?”
“Move past what exactly?” I asked. “You haven’t apologized. You haven’t acknowledged what you did wrong. You just want to pretend nothing happened.”
“We were doing our best as parents,” she said. “We made choices we thought were right at the time. Can’t you give us credit for trying?”
“No,” I said simply. “I can’t.”
“Because trying would have meant listening when I told you how your choices affected me. Trying would have meant treating both your daughters with equal consideration. You didn’t try. You chose.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“Your sister misses you.”
“Then she can call me herself,” I said. “Goodbye, Mom.”
I hung up and blocked that number, too.
Two days later, Bethany did call—but her call wasn’t what I expected. She was crying so hard I could barely understand her.
“Beth, what’s wrong?”
“I messed up, Emma,” she choked out. “I messed up so bad.”
“What happened?”
“I got arrested last night.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t hurt, and nobody else was hurt,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other, “but I blew a 0.09 and they took me to jail, and Mom and Dad had to come get me, and they’re so disappointed, and I don’t know what to do.”
My stomach dropped.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Scared, but fine. The court date is in three weeks.”
“Mom and Dad are saying this is all because I’ve been under too much stress from school—like it’s not my fault,” she continued, then her voice cracked. “But Emma… it is my fault. I chose to drink. I chose to drive. I could have killed someone.”
This was different. This wasn’t her making excuses or deflecting blame. This was actual accountability.
“What do you need from me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Mom and Dad are trying to hire some expensive lawyer to make this go away. And I keep thinking about how you had to figure everything out on your own with no help. And here I am still letting them fix my problems.”
“Beth,” I said, “you should have a lawyer. This is serious.”
“I know,” she said, “but I don’t want them to make it disappear. I want to face the consequences. I want to actually learn from this instead of having it swept under the rug like everything else.”
We talked for over an hour. I helped her think through what taking responsibility actually meant—how to approach the situation with maturity.
By the end of the call, she sounded more stable.
“Can I see you soon?” she asked. “Like, in person? Coffee this weekend, please.”
When we met that Saturday, Bethany looked different—more serious, more grounded.
She told me she’d insisted on taking a plea deal despite our parents’ objections, accepting community service and mandatory alcohol education classes.
“Mom and Dad are furious with me,” she said. “They think I’m ruining my future by not fighting the charges. But you know what? I’d be ruining my future by not learning from this.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said—and I meant it.