Chapter 4 - BETHANYBethany Walsh Mercer had always been the person everybody described as “a lot.”
Loud.
Competitive.
Funny when the joke wasn’t about you.
Brutal when embarrassed.
At forty-one she worked in residential real estate.
Good at it.
She could walk into an empty house and sell you the life you might have there.
She had been married to Daniel Mercer for eleven years.
Their son Caleb was the birthday boy.
Seven.
Thin.
Dark-blond hair.
A quiet child with an encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs.
Daniel was thirty-nine.
Project manager for a commercial flooring company.
Patient.
Observant.
Often too quiet around my sister.
I used to interpret that as temperament.
After the party, I understood it differently.
Bethany had never liked the way I parented Rosie.
“Too soft.”
That phrase had history.
She said I gave Rosie choices about everything.
Which shirt.
Which snack.
Whether she wanted to hug relatives.
Whether she wanted to sit on Santa’s lap.
Once Bethany told me:
“She’s four. You’re acting like she’s negotiating a labor contract.”
I answered:
“She can decide who touches her.”
Bethany rolled her eyes.
Mom laughed.
Dad said:
“Kids need to learn not everything is about comfort.”
That family philosophy sounds less alarming when no child is bruised.
We had all heard versions of it for years.
Toughen up.
Stop babying.
Don’t make a scene.
Family can tease.
Family can hug.
Family can discipline.
Family knows best.
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The night Rosie was hurt, those phrases stopped sounding like opinions.
They became a system.
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