Chapter 13: One Third

I saw Derek and Vanessa on the final day of my visit. That wasn't planned. Grandma and I had gone to a small café near the park before my afternoon flight. I was halfway through a cinnamon roll when the door opened. Vanessa walked in first. Derek followed. All three of us froze. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Vanessa whispered, "Wren." The café suddenly felt too small. Grandma looked at me. "Want to leave?" I appreciated that she asked. "No." I wasn't going to run from a café because my siblings had entered it. Derek approached slowly. Vanessa stayed behind him. Neither looked like the people I remembered. Or maybe they looked exactly the same and I was the one who had changed. Derek stopped beside our table. "We didn't know you'd be here." "I know." "Mom said you were visiting Grandma, but she told us not to bother you." That sentence surprised me. Mom had protected my boundary even from the twins. Vanessa looked at Grandma. "Can we sit?" Grandma looked at me. Again, my choice. "Ten minutes," I said. They sat. The silence was terrible. Derek rubbed his palms against his jeans. Vanessa stared at the table. Finally, Derek spoke. "I meant what I wrote." I touched the necklace instinctively. "I know." "I'm sorry." "I know." He swallowed. "I was a jerk." Grandma snorted. "A concise summary." Despite myself, I smiled. Derek did too. Then Vanessa started crying. My stomach clenched. The reaction was immediate. Old programming. Stop the tears. Give her what she wants. Make the room peaceful. My fingers tightened around my coffee cup. I did nothing. Vanessa wiped her own face. That was new. "I'm sorry," she said. I waited. "For the necklace. The trophy. Your room. Everything." Her voice cracked. "I've been trying to make a list, but every time I remember something, I remember another thing." I looked at her. "Why did you take the necklace?" She flinched. "I was jealous." "Of me?" The idea still sounded absurd. Vanessa nodded. "Grandma gave you something she had worn for forty years. I saw the way she hugged you. I wanted that." "You had Mom." Vanessa started crying harder. "You had Dad. You had everyone." "I know." "Then why wasn't one person allowed to give me something?" "I don't know." "That's not true." She looked at me. "You knew." The café noise faded around us. "You knew it was mine. You knew it was my birthday. You knew Grandma gave it to me because nobody else remembered. And you still took it." Vanessa lowered her head. "Yes." That answer hurt. But it also freed me from something. For years, I had tried to explain their behavior as ignorance. Maybe they hadn't noticed. Maybe they didn't understand. Maybe I hadn't communicated well enough. No. Sometimes they knew. They simply expected me to surrender. Derek spoke quietly. "We thought you'd always get over it." I looked at him. "Why?" "Because you always did." "No. I didn't." He frowned. "I stopped talking about it. That's not the same thing." Neither sibling answered. Grandma sipped her coffee. She wasn't rescuing them. Good. Vanessa took a shaky breath. "I don't expect you to forgive me." "Good." She looked startled. I continued. "Because I don't. Not yet." Her face crumpled. Again, I did nothing. She wiped her tears. "Okay." That one word mattered more than another apology would have. She accepted the consequence. Derek nodded. "Fair." I almost laughed at the word. "Do you know what fairness actually means now?" He looked embarrassed. "I'm learning." Vanessa stared at her hands. "Mom made us pay our own extra phone charges." I raised an eyebrow. "The horror." Derek laughed. Vanessa glared at him. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed too. For half a second, we looked like siblings. Not enemies. Not rivals. Just three people at a café. Then Derek reached into his jacket. "I have something." My body stiffened. He noticed. "It's not a gift." He placed an envelope on the table. Inside was a check. I stared at the amount. It was half the value of the academic competition prize attached to the trophy Vanessa had taken. I looked at him. "What is this?" "Vanessa has the other half." She immediately pulled out another envelope. Together, the checks equaled the full prize money I should have received. Vanessa said, "Mom and Dad offered to pay it, but we said no." Derek nodded. "We did." "Why half each?" Vanessa gave a miserable smile. "Because for once, splitting something between us seemed appropriate." I stared at the checks. "You don't have to take them," Derek said quickly. I thought about refusing. Money wasn't the point. Then I remembered Professor Mercer's voice. Opportunity isn't a birthday cake. I had earned that prize. They had taken it. Returning it wasn't charity. It was restitution. I put the checks in my bag. "I'll take them." Both looked relieved. "But this doesn't buy forgiveness." Derek nodded. "We know." Good. When our ten minutes ended, they stood. Vanessa hesitated. "Can I ask one thing?" "What?" "Do you ever think you'll come home?" I looked at her. "I have a home." Her face changed. "I mean our house." "I know what you meant." She swallowed. "I don't know." Derek touched her shoulder. "Come on." They started toward the door. Then I called his name. "Derek." He turned. "How's your dog?" His surprise was almost funny. "Old. Lazy. Still thinks he's a puppy." I nodded. "Tell him I said hi." A smile appeared. "I will." Vanessa looked at me hopefully. I wasn't ready to give her something similar. That was okay. I didn't have to distribute affection equally just to prove I was fair. They left. Grandma watched me over her coffee. "How was that?" "Awful." She smiled. "And?" "Necessary." At the airport, I deposited the checks through my banking app. The money would cover almost all my summer living expenses. For once, something that belonged to me had been returned without being redirected to someone else. When I landed in Toronto, Maya was waiting. She waved dramatically from the arrivals area. "International scholar!" I groaned. "Please stop." "Never." She grabbed one side of my suitcase. I grabbed the other. On the ride back, she asked about the trip. I told her most of it. When I mentioned the checks, she nodded. "Good." "I almost refused." "Why?" "It felt petty to take money." "Wren." "I know." "You earned it." "I know." She stared at me. "Say it like you believe it." I sighed. "I earned it." "Louder." "Maya." "Louder." "I earned it." A woman across the train looked at us. Maya smiled. "Excellent." Back in Room 614, I opened the notebook Mom had given me. The first page still read: For whatever life you choose. On the second page, I wrote: Summer research position. Save prize money. Apply for next year's housing. Call Grandma every Sunday. Then I paused. After a moment, I added: Maybe have lunch with Mom and Dad again someday. Not definitely. Maybe. That was enough. A week later, Professor Mercer asked whether I would speak at the conference about my contribution to the project. "You want me to present?" "Yes." "In front of everyone?" "That's generally how conferences work." I laughed nervously. My first instinct was fear. Then I remembered the charity gala in my old life. Not my story, but the same feeling: standing behind people, making things work, remaining invisible. I had spent years becoming excellent at disappearing. Maybe it was time to learn the opposite. "Okay," I said. Professor Mercer smiled. "Okay?" "I'll present." The conference room was packed on the day of my talk. My hands shook as I stepped behind the podium. Then the first slide appeared. Project title. Professor Mercer. And beneath her name: Wren Hale, Research Fellow. My name. Not someone else's. Not hidden in tiny acknowledgments. Not transferred because another person would cry. Mine. I spoke for twelve minutes. When I finished, people applauded. I stood there under the lights and let myself hear it. I didn't step aside. I didn't search the room for someone who deserved it more. I didn't apologize. For the first time in my life, I understood that taking my share did not mean stealing from anyone. There had always been enough room for three children. Enough food. Enough chairs. Enough pride. Enough love. My parents had treated love like something that could only be divided into two equal portions. They had been wrong. And now I was done waiting for someone to calculate one third for me. I could build something whole on my own.