Chapter 8 - WHY MY MOTHER NEVER LOVED ME THE SAME WAYThe old television in the downstairs sitting room still had a VHS player.
My mother refused to modernize that room because she said flat screens looked “cheap.”
For once, her obsession with appearances helped us.
Emma fell asleep against Daniel before we began.
He carried her upstairs.
Beatrice and I sat side by side.
Not close.
But closer than we had been in years.
My father inserted the tape.
Static filled the screen.
Then my grandmother appeared.
Margaret Hale.
She was sitting in the garden.
Alive.
Strong.
Exactly as I remembered her.
I covered my mouth.
“Hello, girls.”
Her recorded voice filled the room.
“If you are watching this, then Richard has either returned or failed to return.”
My father looked down.
Grandmother continued.
“I wish I could tell you everything in person. But families built around secrets rarely allow such luxuries.”
She smiled sadly.
“Beatrice, you were always your mother’s pride.”
My sister looked away.
“Laura, you were always her fear.”
I stopped breathing.
Grandmother leaned closer to the camera.
“Not because there was anything wrong with you.”
“She feared you because you noticed things.”
I remembered being seven years old and asking why Mom’s jewelry receipts were hidden inside foundation files.
I remembered asking why Charles Whitmore came to the estate when Dad traveled.
I remembered telling Grandmother that Mom made the housekeeper cry.
Grandmother continued.
“You were eleven when you discovered Vivian removing documents from Richard’s study.”
I suddenly remembered.
Not clearly.
A flash.
My mother kneeling beside Dad’s desk.
A red folder.
She saw me.
That night she told me I had imagined it.
“You told me what you saw,” Grandmother said.
“And Vivian learned that you had told me.”
My hands went cold.
“That is when her treatment of you changed.”
Beatrice turned toward me.
I remembered it.
Before eleven, my mother had been demanding.
After eleven, she became cruel.
Not constantly.
Cruelty would have been easier to recognize that way.
Instead, she alternated.
Affection.
Withdrawal.
Praise.
Humiliation.
She trained me to work for the return of love.
“You were not the difficult daughter,” Grandmother said.
“You were the dangerous witness.”
Tears filled my eyes.
My father covered his face.
The video continued.
Grandmother explained that she discovered financial irregularities eighteen months before Richard’s accident.
Vivian had been transferring money with Charles.
At first, Grandmother believed Vivian was being manipulated.
Then she found letters.
Vivian and Charles had been romantically involved for years.
Even before Beatrice was born.
Beatrice froze.
“No.”
My father looked at her.
Grandmother’s next words came softly.
“Beatrice deserves a truth Richard could never bring himself to tell her.”
My sister whispered, “No.”
“Charles Whitmore may be Beatrice’s biological father.”
The room disappeared.
Beatrice stood.
“No.”
My father did not move.
She looked at him.
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“You never tested?”
“You were my daughter.”
“But biologically?”
“I didn’t care.”
“I care!”
Her scream echoed.
She walked toward him.
“Did Mom know?”
“Yes.”
“Did Charles?”
“I believe so.”
She backed away.
“Oh my God.”
I stood.
Beatrice raised both hands.
“Don’t touch me.”
I stopped.
The tape continued playing.
Grandmother’s voice filled the silence.
“I did not name Laura beneficiary because I loved Beatrice less.”
Beatrice turned toward the screen.
“I named Laura because Vivian and Charles were building their future around Beatrice.”
“They wanted to join the Hale assets to the Whitmore political dynasty.”
My stomach turned.
Beatrice’s marriage.
The grand wedding.
The political photographs.
The endless speeches about legacy.
Had our sisterhood been shaped around a plan older than either of us?
Grandmother continued.
“Laura was outside their design.”
“She therefore had the greatest chance of protecting what the Hale family was intended to represent.”
Then she said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Wealth should make you harder to control, not easier to corrupt.”
The tape ended.
Nobody spoke.
Beatrice walked outside.
I followed after a minute.
She stood on the terrace.
The Easter decorations moved in the wind.
Pastel ribbons.
White flowers.
Ridiculous remnants of a celebration that had ended with arrests.
“My whole life was arranged,” she said.
“Maybe.”
She looked at me.
“You were the one they hated because they couldn’t use you.”
“I think they used me pretty effectively.”
She almost smiled.
Then looked away.
“Malcolm knew.”
“Maybe not everything.”
“He knew Dad was alive.”
“Yes.”
“He knew Charles had something to do with his disappearance.”
“Yes.”
“And he married me anyway.”
I had no answer.
She hugged herself.
“I used to feel sorry for you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I know.”
“I thought you married down.”
That almost made me laugh.
“Daniel would enjoy hearing that.”
“I thought I had the powerful husband.”
“You had the political husband.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Daniel doesn’t need people to know he’s powerful.”
Beatrice nodded slowly.
“I spent my entire life becoming Mom.”
“That can stop.”
She looked at me.
“Can it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Start with Lily.”
Her eyes filled.
“Don’t make her compete with people she loves.”
My sister closed her eyes.
“Like we did.”
“Like we were taught to.”
That distinction mattered.
A car approached.
Police.
My father came outside.
“Vivian has been released pending charges.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Her attorney secured release.”
Beatrice wiped her face.
“Where is she?”
My father looked toward the gate.
The car stopped.
My mother stepped out.
She wore the same dress.
Same pearls.
Same expression of absolute entitlement.
A lawyer followed.
Vivian walked up the path.
Daniel appeared behind us.
“You’re not entering.”
She smiled.
“This is my home.”
“No.”
I stepped forward.
“It isn’t.”
Her gaze moved to me.
For the first time, I had legal documents, witnesses, the trust, and my father standing behind me.
But what gave me courage was simpler.
Emma was upstairs.
And I would never again let my daughter watch me accept the behavior I hoped she would reject.
My mother stopped three feet away.
“You think paperwork makes you the lady of this house?”
“No.”
I looked at the mansion.
“Paperwork makes me the owner.”
Her face twitched.
“And character decides what I do with it.”
She laughed.
“You don’t have any idea how to run this estate.”
“I kept it from foreclosure for ten years.”
That silenced her.
I continued.
“You will collect your personal belongings tomorrow with an attorney present.”
“You cannot throw me out.”
Rebecca stepped forward with the temporary occupancy termination order.
“Actually, she can revoke your trust-issued residence privilege.”
Vivian ignored her.
She looked at Beatrice.
“Tell your sister to stop this nonsense.”
My sister stared at her mother.
“Did you know Charles might be my biological father?”
Everything stopped.
Vivian’s face gave her away.
Beatrice staggered.
“Oh my God.”
“Beatrice—”
“You knew.”
“It is complicated.”
“Was Malcolm my husband because you wanted me connected to the Whitmores?”
Vivian’s silence was worse than any answer.
Beatrice whispered, “You planned my marriage.”
“No. I encouraged an appropriate match.”
“You arranged my life.”
“I gave you opportunities.”
“You gave me to them.”
Vivian’s voice sharpened.
“Do not be melodramatic.”
Beatrice laughed.
Then she slapped her mother.
Once.
Hard.
Vivian stared at her.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead, Beatrice began crying.
“I learned that from you too.”
She lowered her hand.
“And I hate that.”
She walked past Vivian.
My mother turned toward me.
Her expression became poisonous.
“You did this.”
“No.”
“You turned her against me.”
“She found out the truth.”
“Truth?”
Vivian stepped closer.
“You think you know the truth because Margaret left a sentimental little recording?”
My body stiffened.
“You watched it?”
Vivian smiled.
“I helped record it.”
My father looked stunned.
“What?”
She tilted her head.
“Your mother thought she was so clever.”
Then she turned toward me.
“There is one thing Margaret never knew.”
My heart began pounding.
May you like
Vivian looked directly into my eyes.
“Richard isn’t your father either.”
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