Chapter 392
Chapter 392:
Richard and Margaret exchanged glances.
“We gave it away,” Richard admitted. “After you stopped playing.”
“After Rose came,” Camille said, the pieces connecting. “She hated my playing. Said it gave her headaches.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Rose’s name still carried the weight of all they’d lost, all they’d failed to see.
“We didn’t understand then,” Margaret said finally. “We thought we were helping two sisters bond. We didn’t see what she was doing.”
Camille studied her mother’s face, searching for the truth. “Why didn’t you believe me? When I told you about her and Stefan?”
Margaret flinched but didn’t look away. “Because believing you meant facing our failure. Admitting we’d been blind for years.”
“It was easier to think you were mistaken,” Richard added, his voice rough with emotion. “Than to accept that we had let Rose manipulate all of us for so long.”
The waiter returned to take their food orders. Camille hadn’t even looked at the menu, but found herself requesting the mushroom risotto, her old favorite from years ago.
When they were alone again, Margaret reached across the table, stopping just short of touching Camille’s hand. “We can’t undo what happened. But we’re trying to understand it better. To understand you better.”
“Victoria helped me see things clearly,” Camille said, the name a shield she still instinctively raised.
“Victoria gave you what we couldn’t,” Richard acknowledged. “Strength when you needed it most.”
“But before Victoria,” Margaret said gently, “there was just Camille. A little girl who loved fishing and piano and science projects. Who collected butterflies and pressed them between wax paper. Who cried when she found a bird with a broken wing and kept it in a shoebox until it healed.”
Camille’s throat tightened. Those memories felt like they belonged to someone else—a girl who existed before pain and betrayal had reshaped her.
“You remember all that?” she asked.
“We remember everything,” Margaret answered. “Even if we forgot what mattered for a while.”
Their food arrived, giving Camille a moment to collect herself. The risotto tasted exactly as she remembered—creamy, rich with herbs and wine. A flavor from her past that still existed in the present.
“May I show you something else?” Margaret asked after they’d eaten in silence for a few minutes. When Camille nodded, she pulled a worn journal from her bag. “This was yours. From when you were eleven.”
Camille recognized it instantly—the flowered cover, the small lock that had made her feel her thoughts were safe. She hesitated before taking it, unsure if she wanted to reconnect with the girl who had written in those pages.
“I found it when we were cleaning out the attic,” Margaret explained. “After we thought you were dead.”
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