Chapter 3 - The Golden Star
I didn't ruin Christmas Eve dinner. I served the roast chicken, the golden mashed potatoes, and the buttered rolls with steady hands. Derek played the jovial patriarch, pouring sparkling cider into June's glass and carving the meat with grand, sweeping gestures.
""A toast,"" Derek announced, raising his glass high. ""To family. To enduring the rough waters and coming out stronger on the other side.""
Cole clinked his glass half-heartedly. Marley rolled her eyes, her phone still resting beside her plate, recording a silent time-lapse of the meal for her social media feed. June didn't touch her cider. She pushed a single green bean around her plate with the tip of her fork, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
""June, honey, eat your dinner,"" Derek said, his voice dropping into that smooth, performative warmth he used when he wanted to sound like Father of the Year. ""Eliza worked hard on those potatoes.""
""I don't want them,"" June whispered.
""She doesn't have to eat them if she doesn't want to, Dad,"" Marley chimed in sharply, glaring at me across the table. ""You heard Mom. We don't have to pretend to like things just to keep the peace.""
""That's enough, Marley,"" Derek said, though he was smiling down at his plate. He loved this. He loved being the benign referee caught between his fiery, protective daughters and his supposedly cold, unfeeling wife. It positioned him as the sole victim and the sole hero.
I said nothing. I ate my dinner, cleared the plates, and loaded the dishwasher. When Derek settled into the living room with a fresh glass of bourbon to watch a holiday basketball game, I slipped out through the back door into the chilly coastal night.
The blue recycling bin sat by the garage. I flipped the lid open. The streetlights cast long, slanted shadows across the plastic. Resting right on top of a heap of crushed Amazon cardboard was June’s silver box.
The wrapping was scuffed at the corners, and the crooked gold star I had pressed on at one in the morning was peeling at two of its points, but the package was intact. I lifted it out and wiped the damp dust from the paper with the hem of my sweater.
Behind me, the gravel crunched softly.
I turned around. June stood on the concrete walkway in her flannel pajamas, her bare feet tucked into oversized shearling slippers. She hugged her elbows, shivering in the December breeze.
""You're not supposed to take things out of the trash,"" she said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the neighbor's decorative reindeer. ""Marley said once it goes into the bin, it belongs to the city.""
""It's not in the trash, June,"" I said gently, crouching down so we were eye-to-eye. ""It was in the recycling. That means it gets a second chance.""
She looked at the silver box in my hands. Her lips trembled, and two fat tears spilled over her lower lashes, carving clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. ""Marley said if I kept it, it meant I didn't love Mom. She said you bought cheap things from the dollar store because you wanted Dad's money for your own clothes.""
I felt a sharp, burning pain behind my ribs, but I kept my tone soft and steady. I didn't want to tear down her sister, and I didn't want to load my adult rage onto a ten-year-old child's shoulders.
""Do you want to know what's inside this box, June?"" I asked.
She hesitated, glancing nervously back toward the lit living room windows where Derek's silhouette was visible against the television light. Slowly, she gave a tiny nod.
""Sit with me on the porch step for two minutes,"" I whispered.
She walked over and sat down, pulling her knees up against her chest. I peeled the scotch tape away cleanly, folding back the silver foil without tearing it. Inside was the polished birchwood box. The clasp was brushed brass. Burned into the grain of the lid, in delicate calligraphy, were the letters J. H.
June’s breath hitched. She reached out one trembling finger and traced the groove of the wood. ""My initials.""
""Open it,"" I said.
She flipped the brass latch. Inside, nested in two velvet-lined tiers, were seventy-two artist-grade watercolor pencils, arranged in a perfect gradient from deep indigo to blazing crimson. Beneath the tray lay a pad of three-hundred-gram cold-pressed cotton paper, heavy and textured, the exact kind she had stared at for twenty minutes when we walked past the art supply shop in Balboa Park last October.
""They're real,"" June breathed, her eyes widening in absolute shock. ""These aren't the school ones. These are the ones the real illustrators use at the museum.""
""They're for you,"" I said. ""Because every time you sit at my kitchen counter and paint the hummingbirds in the hibiscus bush, you look completely happy. And nobody—not Marley, not your dad, not anyone—gets to take that away from you.""
June looked up at me, her face pale with guilt and sudden confusion. ""Dad told us you wouldn't let him buy Marley her laptop because you said kids didn't deserve expensive things until they graduated high school.""
""Your dad told you that?"" I asked quietly.
She nodded rapidly. ""He said you locked the family debit card. He showed Marley the banking app on his phone where it said 'Transaction Declined' when he tried to buy the camera kit she wanted. Marley cried in the car for an hour.""
A bitter, cold fury ignited in my stomach. Derek hadn't just mismanaged money; he had staged deliberate declines on our shared debit card to build a narrative of my cruelty, all while transferring thirty-four thousand dollars to Taryn West.
""June,"" I said, closing the wooden box and pressing it into her small hands. ""Take this up to your room. Hide it under your sweater drawer. Don't tell Marley, and don't tell your dad. Just keep it safe.""
May you like
""Why can't I tell them?""
""Because tomorrow morning,"" I said, standing up and looking toward the house, ""the truth is going to come out. And I don't want your art getting caught in the storm.""
