NOT LOVED EQUALLY

The call from my parents had come early in the morning, a brusque and abrupt summons that brooked no argument.

"Come home tonight," my father said. "There's something important we need to discuss."

There was a tone in his voice that sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn't have the energy to argue. I needed to keep my focus on Seth's recovery, not whatever new drama my parents had dreamed up.

By evening, I stood at the front door of my childhood home, with a weight of anxieties from that day weighing on my skin. The house looked the same as it had, yet there was something cold in it. I pushed open the door, and the smell of my mother's cooking hit me—familiar, yet filling me with dread.

"Christie, you're here," my mother called from the kitchen. Her voice was tight, flat-not welcoming.

"Yeah, I'm here," I returned, working on a smile as I entered the dining room. "What's so urgent?"

My father was already seated at the head of the table, his expression light. "Sit down, Christie," he s