Chapter 6 - Why Lily was “difficult”
Lily had not always been the family’s designated sensitive child.
When she was a toddler, everyone adored her.
Blonde curls.
Quiet.
Loved books.
Diane bought matching dresses.
Frank carried her on his shoulders.
The change started around four.
That was when Lily learned to say:
“I don’t like that.”
My father hated that sentence.
Not just from children.
From anyone.
At four, Lily refused to kiss him hello once.
He joked:
“Grandpa doesn’t get a kiss anymore?”
She hid behind me.
I said:
“She doesn’t have to.”
He stared.
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
Mom later told me privately:
“You made that awkward.”
No.
Frank had.
But I absorbed part of it.
At five, Lily asked Grandpa not to call her:
“crybaby.”
Frank laughed.
“Then stop crying.”
At Christmas, he tickled her after she said stop.
I intervened.
He said:
“We’re playing.”
Lily said:
“I’m not.”
My mother rolled her eyes.
Another time, Diane insisted Lily finish casserole before dessert.
Normal rule perhaps.
But Ethan had already left half his casserole untouched.
I pointed that out.
Mom said:
“He ate plenty earlier.”
Different rule.
Different explanation.
Each incident small.
Each defensible alone.
That was the genius of family favoritism.
It rarely introduces itself as:
We value this child more.
Instead:
He earned it.
She’s sensitive.
He helps.
She complains.
He eats what he’s given.
She asks for special treatment.
He laughs.
She takes things personally.
Eventually the conclusion appears to be produced by the children themselves.
May you like
It isn’t.
Adults curate the evidence.
