Chapter 5
Cecilia was seventeen when she vanished.
I was thirteen.
Vincent told me she hated the family.
My father told me she chose freedom.
My mother never spoke about her again.
For years I resented Cecilia.
Then eventually I stopped.
People leave.
That was the story.
Arthur changed it with one sentence.
“She was sent to St. Catherine’s.”
My hands tightened.
Vincent snapped:
“That has nothing to do with this.”
I turned.
“Then why use the same place for my children?”
Silence.
Arthur looked older suddenly.
Cecilia had not run.
She fell in love with a young man from outside the approved families.
Our father refused.
She kept seeing him.
The elders decided distance would correct her.
St. Catherine’s was not a prison.
That was important.
No bars.
No chains.
A beautiful estate surrounded by forest.
Tutors.
Staff.
Security.
And no ability to leave without family approval.
A cage designed by people rich enough to avoid using the word.
“How long?”
Arthur answered.
“Seven months.”
My stomach turned.
“She was seventeen.”
Vincent interrupted.
“She was reckless.”
I looked at him.
“Where did she go afterward?”
No answer.
Arthur continued.
Cecilia escaped with help from a kitchen worker.
Never returned.
Contacted our mother once.
Then disappeared again.
Alive.
At least then.
I stared at Vincent.
“You were twenty-seven.”
He looked away.
“You helped send her.”
“Yes.”
There.
History repeating itself.
My children strapped to luggage.
Cecilia moved in a car decades earlier.
Different packaging.
Same belief.
Family elders decide where younger people belong.
Then Miranda whispered:
“They told me St. Catherine’s was a school.”
I turned.
“Did you ask why children needed fake names to attend a school?”
She started crying.
“I didn’t want to know.”
That was honest.
Finally.
Not manipulated.
Not confused.
She saw enough to know something was wrong and chose the version that benefited her.
I could work with truth.
Not forgiveness.
Truth.
Then Arthur added:
“Cecilia left something there.”
Vincent reacted instantly.
“Stop.”
Too late.
“What?”
Arthur looked at me.
“A box addressed to you.”
Twenty-six years.
May you like
My sister had left me something.
And my family made sure I never knew.
