Chapter 7 - The Second Invitation
On Wednesday afternoon, the mail carrier dropped off a small, thick envelope addressed in green ink.
Mia found it in the box when she came home from school. She brought it inside, her backpack slung over one shoulder, and laid it on the kitchen island without opening it.
"What's that?" I asked, looking up from my laptop.
"Jessica says to open it," Mia said, her voice neutral, unreadable.
I reached across and slipped the flap open. Inside wasn't a card—it was a hand-drawn flyer on heavy watercolor paper, decorated with small green ferns and silver stars.
THE UN-BIRTHDAY PARTY
Saturday, October 17 at 2:00 PM
Location: The Community Garden Gazebo
Guest of Honor: Mia Reynolds
Dress Code: Whatever makes you feel like dancing.
At the bottom, in Jessica’s precise cursive, was a note: Lily has been practicing her flute for three days. Bring your name cards.
Mia stared at the paper for a long time. The corners of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the beginning of one, like a plant feeling the first warmth of spring after a hard frost.
"Can we go?" she asked, looking up at me with those wide, clear eyes.
"We aren't just going," I said, feeling a weight lift off my chest that had been pressing down since Saturday. "We’re hosting. Right there in the garden. And this time, nobody’s locking the door."
Melissa wasn't in the kitchen when we talked. She had spent the last forty-eight hours upstairs in the master bedroom, mostly keeping to herself, only coming down to make tea when the house was quiet. The wedge between us had grown into a chasm, silent and deep, but for the first time, I didn't care about the architecture of the peace. Some houses have to fall down before you can see what’s rotting in the frame.
That evening, I went up to Zoe’s room.
I knocked twice, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. Zoe was sitting at her desk with her laptop open, her phone buzzing against the wood with notifications from group chats she was desperately trying to keep up with.
She didn't look up immediately. "Mom said dinner is in twenty minutes."
"It's not your mom," I said.
Zoe turned her head, her expression guarded, defensive, ready for a lecture about the party or the texts or the way she had treated Mia.
I sat down on the edge of her bed, resting my hands on my knees. I looked at her—really looked at her—the way I should have looked at her a year ago when the middle-school anxiety had first started chewing her up inside.
"Zoe," I said softly. "You don't have to push other people off the porch to keep your place in this house."
She swallowed hard, the defiance flickering in her eyes for a second before a small, miserable look took its place. "You don't get it. If my friends think I live with someone weird—someone who doesn't fit in—they won't sit with me at lunch anymore. Last year at the middle school, before we moved here, I sat alone for three months. Do you know what that feels like?"
May you like
"Yes," I said, thinking of Mia sitting on her bed with the six name cards. "I do. But pushing your sister down doesn't keep you safe, Zoe. It just makes the house smaller for everyone."
She didn't answer, but she didn't look away either. She reached out and turned her phone face down on the desk.
