Chapter 2: The Difference Between Her Children
Rochelle finally found her voice.
“Russell, you're making this into something it isn't.””
My father gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Then explain it to me.””
“Cameron was excited about putting up his poster. That's all. Imani can make another drawing.””
Cameron nodded immediately.
“Exactly. It's not like I destroyed something important.””
I looked at him.
“You destroyed Grandma's portrait.””
He shrugged.
“And?””
My father turned toward him.
“Do you hear yourself?””
Cameron folded his arms.
“Dad, it's a wall. I wanted to put my poster there. Why does everybody have to make everything about Imani?””
I felt my stomach tighten.
There it was again.
Somehow, even after he had destroyed my work, I was the problem.
Rochelle stepped between Cameron and my father.
“Russell, stop attacking him. He's only twenty.””
“Imani is seventeen,” Russell replied.
“She's still a child, too. But somehow you remember that only when you want her to do what you say.””
My mother frowned.
“Don't bring up things that have nothing to do with this.””
“They have everything to do with this.””
He pointed toward the wall.
“Why couldn't Cameron hang his poster somewhere else?””
“Because that spot looks better.””
“So her grandmother's portrait had to come down?””
“It was just a drawing!””
The room went silent.
My father looked at her for a long moment.
Then he asked something I hadn't expected.
“Rochelle, do you remember what your mother gave Imani before she passed?””
My mother shifted her weight.
“Why are you bringing up Evelyn?””
“Answer the question.””
Cameron rolled his eyes.
“Can we stop talking about dead people? I have practice tomorrow.””
I flinched.
Russell didn't.
“Your grandmother gave your sister her old sketchbook,” he said.
“Do you remember that?””
Cameron shrugged.
“So?””
“She told Imani to keep drawing. She told her that she had something special.””
My father looked at me.
“That's why she worked so hard on that portrait.””
I swallowed.
The folder felt heavy against my chest.
Rochelle crossed her arms.
“Evelyn told that girl all kinds of things. It doesn't mean the rest of us have to rearrange the house around her.””
I stared at my mother.
It was strange how easily she could talk about Grandma as though she had been some inconvenience.
Grandma had been the only person who never made me feel like I needed to compete with Cameron.
When he got a new basketball, she bought me pencils.
When he scored a winning basket, she asked me to show her my latest drawing.
She never made one of us feel more important than the other.
I missed her terribly.
And now the person who had once called her family was treating her memory like clutter.
Russell took a breath.
“I'm taking Imani to the kitchen. I want to see how much of this can be saved.””
Rochelle moved aside, but her expression remained hard.
“Fine. Go ahead. Make her feel like the victim.””
I followed my father.
Behind us, Cameron muttered something about his poster.
I heard Rochelle tell him she would find another place for it.
Not once did she ask whether I was okay.
The kitchen light was too bright.
I placed my folder on the table and opened it carefully.
The portrait lay inside, its two halves slightly overlapping.
My grandmother's face looked unfamiliar now.
Russell pulled out a chair.
“Let me see.””
I handed him the paper.
He studied the torn edges without touching the drawing itself.
“Can we tape it?””
“Maybe. But the paper is thin. The charcoal might smear.””
He nodded.
“Do you have any photographs of the finished portrait?””
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“I took some pictures last night.””
“Good. Show me.””
I opened my gallery.
There she was.
Grandma Evelyn, smiling at me from the screen.
The drawing had been almost finished. I had spent hours shading her cheeks and adjusting the lines around her eyes.
Russell stared at the photograph.
“Baby, this is beautiful.””
My throat tightened.
“I know it's not perfect.””
“Who said anything about perfect?””
“Ms. Whitmore said the portfolio review was important. She said this could be one of the strongest pieces if I finished the background.””
He looked at the photograph again.
“Then we're going to show her what you made.””
I shook my head.
“But it's ripped.””
“Then we'll explain what happened.””
I lowered my eyes.
“Mom is going to say I should have moved it.””
Russell leaned forward.
“Did you rip it?””
“No.””
“Did you ask Cameron to rip it?””
“No.””
“Then why are you carrying the blame?””
I didn't answer.
Because I had spent years learning that the easiest way to keep peace in our house was to apologize first.
If Cameron took my things, I was supposed to share.
If he interrupted me, I was supposed to be patient.
If he got angry, I was supposed to understand.
And if I cried, I was supposed to stop making a scene.
Russell reached across the table and rested his hand beside mine.
“Listen to me, Imani. Your work matters. Your feelings matter. And being his sister doesn't mean you have to accept everything he does.””
I looked up.
“Why doesn't Mom see that?””
His face softened.
“I don't know, sweetheart.””
For a moment, the kitchen was quiet except for the refrigerator humming.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Ms. Whitmore.
*MS. WHITMORE: Good evening, Imani. Just checking that you're ready for tomorrow's portfolio review.
Please bring your grandmother portrait. I especially want to discuss the emotional storytelling in that piece.*
I stared at the screen.
My father read it over my shoulder.
“She's expecting it,” he said.
I nodded.
“I don't know what to tell her.””
“Tell her the truth.””
Before I could answer, someone appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Cameron.
He leaned against the frame, holding his phone.
“Dad, Mom wants you to stop acting like I'm some criminal.””
Russell didn't look up.
“Did you apologize to your sister?””
Cameron laughed.
“For what?””
“For destroying her artwork.””
“I said it was just paper.””
“That wasn't an apology.””
Cameron glanced at me.
“Look, Imani. I'm sorry you got so emotional.””
I stared at him.
“That isn't an apology either.””
His eyebrows lifted.
“Wow. Now you want to argue?””
Russell stood.
“Cameron, go back to the living room.””
My brother didn't move.
Instead, he looked at the open folder.
Then his eyes settled on the photograph of Grandma's portrait on my phone.
Something changed in his expression.
“Wait,” he said.
“Is that the picture Ms. Whitmore wants?””
I frowned.
“Why?””
He smiled slightly.
“Nothing.””
Then he walked away.
My father watched him disappear down the hallway.
I closed the folder.
For some reason, I didn't like the way Cameron had looked at that photograph.
And when I checked my phone again, I noticed something else.
The message from Ms. Whitmore had been marked as read.
May you like
I hadn't opened it on any other device.
Someone else had.
