I could have corrected the misunderstanding then, but something stopped me. Part of me wanted to see how long this would go on, how long they would continue to attribute to Melody something that she hadn’t done. Another part—the part I’m not proud of—was curious about how they would treat me if they ever discovered the truth.
And so I said nothing, continuing the payments while listening to my parents sing Melody’s praises during our infrequent phone calls. “Your sister is so successful,” they would say. “She’s really made something of herself.”
All while believing I was barely getting by in my little office job.
The irony might have been amusing if it hadn’t been so painful. My father’s 60th birthday brought me back to Columbus for the first time in eight months. I had missed the previous Thanksgiving and Christmas, citing work commitments that weren’t entirely fictional.
The truth was, I had reached a point where each visit home left me emotionally drained for weeks afterward. As my flight descended toward Ohio, I could feel the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. I had sent an expensive watch as my father’s birthday gift—a Rolex Datejust that cost more than my monthly rent—but had received only a brief text message in response.
Thanks for the watch. No acknowledgement of the significance of the gift. No recognition that it represented a level of success he had always pushed me toward.
I rented a car at the airport instead of asking for a pickup, giving myself the freedom to escape if necessary. Pulling into the driveway of my childhood home, I took several deep breaths and put on what my college roommate used to call my game face: pleasant, unaffected, impervious to criticism. My mother answered the door with a distracted air, her eyes immediately looking past me toward the driveway.
“Is Melody with you?” she asked instead of a greeting. “No, Mom. We don’t live in the same city, remember?
She’s in Chicago. I’m in New York.”
I stepped inside, dragging my weekend bag behind me. “Of course, of course,” she said, finally offering a brief hug.
“It’s just that she said she might pick you up from the airport. She’s always so thoughtful that way.”
I bit back the obvious response that if Melody had planned to pick me up, she would have told me, and instead asked, “How’s Dad?”
“Oh, you know your father. Grumpy about turning 60.
Go say hello. He’s in the den watching the game.”
My father was indeed watching football, but his attention shifted to me as soon as I entered the room. His eyes performed the usual inspection, taking in my haircut—too long.
My clothes—too formal for a family gathering, apparently. My overall appearance—too thin, not enough sun. “Cashis,” he said with a nod, not rising from his recliner.
“Glad you could make it.”
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