Chapter 24 I Was Just a Little Girl Too
The next day, my father was already home when I arrived from school.
“Ashley,” he called from his study. “Come here, please.”
When I stepped inside, he was sitting behind his desk, posture rigid, eyes lifting to me for half a second before sliding away again.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I did.
“Your mother took Apple to see her doctor today,” he began.
I waited.
“She’s… struggling again,” he said carefully. “Depression. Panic episodes. Nightmares.”
I studied his face.
“What set it off?”
His eyes didn’t meet mine. They drifted to the desk. The phone. The window.
When he finally spoke, he still wasn’t looking at me.
“You,” he said.
“Me?”
He sighed and rubbed his temples like he was already tired.
“You’ve changed,” he said. “A lot. And Apple doesn’t handle change well. She compares herself to you constantly. It’s… overwhelming for her. School pressure, social stress. It builds. The psychiatrist says her stress needs to be reduced. She started on antidepressants.”
He glanced up at me, searching.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “You’ve been… different these past few weeks. And your mother is worried.”
I stared back at him.
“I haven’t done anything,” I said. “I’ve just been living my life quietly.”
He sighed. “I know it isn’t fair. But Apple has always been fragile. The nightmares are getting worse. The panic attacks. And that man… from before…”
His jaw tightened.
“It still haunts her,” he finished. “She needs peace.”
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked softly. “Make myself smaller? Apologize for breathing too loudly?”
He blinked.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Isn’t it?” I cut in. “Because every time Apple falls apart, the solution seems to be me disappearing.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
I exhaled slowly and then I shifted.
Let my shoulders slacken.
Let my breath hitch just slightly.
Let my eyes shine.
“My whole childhood,” I said quietly, “I was taught that everything was my fault.”
He stiffened.
“I was eight years old,” I went on, my voice trembling just enough to sell it. “Eight when Apple was taken from that store. I wasn’t responsible for her. I was a child. But somehow I’ve worn that guilt my whole life anyway.”
His face went pale.
“I’m tired,” I whispered.
Tears slipped free.
He froze.
“Ashley—”
“I tried so hard,” I continued. “To not upset her. To not stand out. To not exist too loudly. And still… I’m the problem.”
I wiped my eyes slowly so he could see everything, but not the calculation underneath.
“Daddy,” I said softly. “I was just a little girl too.”
His face crumpled.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” He swallowed. “We were terrified. It was a miracle we even got her back.”
I wiped at my eyes slowly, letting him see the damage.
“A miracle,” I echoed. “Like when she was born early?”
Dad’s face went blank.
“Yes,” he stammered. “I mean—yes. She was… early. She’s always been… fragile.”
I tilted my head.
“And where does that leave me?”
He looked at me, startled.
“I’m your daughter too,” I said. “Aren’t I?”
His mouth parted.
“Of course you are, Ashley.”
I nodded once.
“Then help me understand,” I said quietly. “How is any of this fair?”
He faltered.
“What do you mean?”
I drew in a slow breath.
“I mean she’s always been chosen,” I said. “In ways you never noticed. And in ways I learned to expect.”
He started to speak, but I didn’t let him.
“When I turned ten,” I said, “I picked out a plastic tiara from a party shop. Purple. Cheap. It said Princess in glitter. I wanted to wear it all day.”
His brow furrowed.
“Halfway through the party,” I continued, “it was on Apple’s head instead. She ran around like it was her birthday. She even blew out my candles before I reached the cake.”
His jaw tightened.
“I cried,” I said. “I asked for it back. I didn’t get it. When I went to Mom, she told me to be ‘mature.’ That it was just a tiara.”
I looked down.
“You were at work.”
His eyes dropped to the floor.
“And that wasn’t the only time,” I added quietly. “My things became hers. My moments became hers. And I learned to let go, because no one else ever would.”
Silence stretched between us.
When he finally spoke, his voice was unsteady.
“I didn’t realize.”
“No,” I said gently. “You weren’t looking.”
His face tightened, not with anger, but something far worse.
Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant for you to feel second.”
I studied him.
“I don’t want apologies,” I said. “I want it to stop.”
He finally looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.
“I’ll do better,” he said. “I’ll be here more. I’ll talk to your mother. And I’ll make sure you’re treated equally. I promise.”
Then, after a pause:
“I gave your mom some money. You’re going shopping with her and Apple tomorrow. Both of you.”
I nodded slowly.
And let him believe that was enough.
That night, I didn’t fall asleep right away.
Muffled voices drifted through the hallway, soft at first, then sharp enough to cut through the walls.
I pushed myself upright and sat against the headboard, tilting my head just enough to catch the sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom.
“…can’t keep doing this…”
“…not acceptable…”
“…she’s noticing…”
“…you’re overreacting…”
A thud followed, something hitting the dresser, the dull slam of a drawer or a fist against wood.
“…you’ve always been harder on her…”
“…I’m only trying to protect Apple—”
My mouth curved in the dark.
I pictured them standing on opposite sides of their room, no longer a united front.
My father finally seeing things he had spent years training himself not to. And Marissa, cornered, exposed in ways she couldn’t cry or manipulate her way out of.
The fracture had begun.
And this was only the beginning.