Chapter 2: The Silence They Mistook for Weakness
I didn't respond to my mother's text.
I didn't respond to any of them.
For six months, I went completely silent.
No calls.
No messages.
No holidays.
Nothing.
At first, they didn't seem to notice.
Then, eight weeks after the funeral, Eleanor called.
"Sienna, Mom's upset.
You haven't reached out once.
Don't you think this is getting a little dramatic?"
I held the phone and said nothing.
"Hello?
Are you even listening?"
"I heard you," I said quietly.
"Well?
Are you going to apologize to Mom or not?"
I hung up.
Two weeks later, my father tried.
His voicemail lasted four minutes.
He talked about family loyalty, about how grief shouldn't divide people, about how Eleanor had cried on her birthday because of the tension I had caused.
He never once said Julian's name.
He never said Maya.
He never said Leo.
I saved that voicemail.
I don't know why.
Maybe I already knew I would need it someday.
Then, six months after the funeral, I made one decision — and somehow, a single headline changed everything.
My phone started ringing before I'd even had my morning coffee.
My father.
My mother.
Eleanor.
Three cousins who hadn't spoken to me in years.
All of them.
At once.
May you like
My mother's message came through first.
*Sienna, what have you done?*
