I pressed play.
It wasn’t meant for me.
Belle’s voice was muffled, laughing with someone else.
“She’s so annoying, calling me like we’re close. She acts like she’s special just because Grandma likes her. I don’t even get what Grandma sees in her.”
More laughter.
Then the message cut off like someone had realized.
A second later:
“Oops. Sent that by accident. Don’t mind it. Lol.”
Accident.
Sure.
And the more I thought about it, the more those accidents lined up like stepping stones leading to one place: my silence.
Every time they nudged me to doubt myself, they bought another year of control.
Even the notebook comment in the group chat made sense now.
Grandma wasn’t getting weird.
She was keeping score.
She was noticing who showed up, who didn’t, and who thought love was something you performed in public and neglected in private.
