My Sister Smirked at the Table, “Maybe If Your Daughter Had Better Parents, She Wouldn’t Be So…
A Sunday Dinner To Remember
My daughter Emily stared at her plate, her fork frozen. The Sunday dinner table went quiet.
“What did you just say?”
I kept my voice level, setting down my fork. My sister Jennifer leaned back, her wine glass dangling from her fingers.
“Oh, come on, we’re all thinking it. The kid barely talks, draws strange pictures all day. It’s not normal for a 10-year-old.”
Emily’s shoulders hunched. Her fingers gripped the table, knuckles white.
“Jennifer!”
My mother’s voice carried a warning.
“I’m saying what everyone’s too polite to mention.”
Jennifer sipped her wine.
“Maybe if Sarah actually parented, Emily would have friends, would fit in.”
My father cleared his throat.
“Let’s change the subject.”
“No.”
I looked at Jennifer.
“Tell me more about parenting.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t be defensive. I’m helping. My boys are thriving—honor roll, soccer captain, student council. They’re well adjusted because Mark and I set expectations.”
Her twin sons sat across from Emily wearing matching smirks. One whispered to the other and they both snickered.
“Is that right?”
I sipped my water slowly.
“The boys are doing well, exceptionally well.”
Jennifer puffed with pride.
“Unlike some children who live in fantasy worlds instead of developing real skills.”
Emily pushed back from the table.
“May I be excused?”
“Finish your dinner, sweetheart.”
I kept my eyes on Jennifer.
“See? Can’t even handle a little constructive criticism.”
Jennifer gestured with her wine glass.
“That’s the problem right there. You coddle her, Sarah. The real world isn’t going to be so gentle.”
My brother Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His wife Lisa studied her plate with intense fascination.
Nobody wanted to get involved, as usual.
“Jennifer,”
My mother tried again.
“This isn’t appropriate.”
“Oh mother, stop. Someone needs to say it. Emily’s almost 11 and acts like she’s six. She needs help, probably, but Sarah’s too busy to notice my little job.”
I let that sit.
“What exactly do you think Emily should be doing differently?”
I asked.
“Participating, socializing, normal kid things.”
Jennifer waved her hand dismissively.
“Instead she sits in corners drawing her weird little pictures. The teachers probably think she’s troubled.”
The Truth About Westbrook Academy
“The teachers?”
I nodded.
“What do your boys’ teachers think?”
Jennifer’s smile faltered.
“What?”
“Their teachers. The feedback you’re getting from school.”
“Their teachers love them.”
But her voice lost confidence.
“Why?”
“Just conversation.”
I cut my chicken and chewed slowly.
“Since we’re discussing our children’s education, how are things at Westbrook Academy?”
The private school’s name hung in the air. Jennifer’s fingers tightened around her wine glass.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Really?”
I tilted my head.
“That’s interesting, because I heard there might be some issues. Academic integrity concerns.”
Mark, Jennifer’s husband, spoke for the first time.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around.”
I took another bite.
Small community, prestigious school; word travels.
“There are no issues.”
Jennifer’s voice had an edge.
“The boys are great. Someone’s spreading rumors.”
“Hm.”
I looked at her twins. They’d stopped smirking.
“Must be mistaken then. I could have sworn I heard something about plagiarism and cheating on midterm exams. But if you say everything’s fine…”
Jennifer’s face went pale.
“Who told you that?”
“So there are issues?”
I set down my fork.
“Interesting that you failed to mention them while you were critiquing my parenting.”
“That’s completely different. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“Is it?”
I kept my tone conversational.
“Buying essays online seems pretty straightforward. Not much room for misunderstanding there.”
The table went silent. My father stopped eating.
Tom stared at me with wide eyes.
“How do you know about that?”
Mark’s voice was tight.
“I have my sources.”
I looked at Emily, who had lifted her head slightly and was watching.
“The school takes academic dishonesty very seriously from what I understand, especially repeat offenses.”
“It’s being handled.”
Jennifer’s hand shook slightly as she set down her wine glass.
“The school is working with us.”
“Are they?”
I folded my napkin.
“That’s generous of them considering the evidence. The matching essays from online paper mills, the identical test answers, the timestamps showing the boys accessed restricted materials during exams.”
The Director of Academic Affairs
Jennifer pushed back from the table.
“You need to stop.”
“Why? I thought we were having a conversation about parenting and children’s development. About real world consequences.”
I looked at my daughter.
“Emily, honey, what did you get on your last English essay?”
“A-plus.”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“And that was your own work?”
She nodded.
“Original analysis? Your own words?”
“Yes, Mom.”
I turned back to Jennifer.
“See? My daughter might be quiet, she might spend her time drawing instead of playing soccer, but she’s honest. She does her own work. She has integrity.”
“This is not the same thing!”
Jennifer’s voice rose.
“You’re twisting everything!”
“Am I?”
I leaned back in my chair.
“You came into my parents’ house and insulted my child, called her weird, suggested she needs help, blamed me for her personality, all while your own sons are facing expulsion for systematic academic fraud.”
“They’re not being expelled!”
But Jennifer’s voice lacked conviction.
“Not yet.”
I picked up my fork again.
“The disciplinary hearing is scheduled for Tuesday, isn’t it? 3:00 in the headmaster’s conference room.”
Dead silence. Mark stood up.
“How do you know the details of a confidential school matter?”
“Maybe I’m better informed than you thought.”
I took a sip of water.
“Maybe my little job isn’t as insignificant as Jennifer believes.”
“What are you talking about?”
Jennifer’s voice had gone shrill. My mother leaned forward.
“Sarah, what’s going on?”
“Mom, you know I work at Westbrook Academy, right? You’ve known for two years.”
“You’re an administrative assistant.”
Jennifer grabbed on to that.
“You file papers. Is that what you think?”
I smiled.
“Did you actually ask what my position was, or did you just assume?”
The color drained from Jennifer’s face.
“You’re not…”
“I’m not an administrative assistant.”
I let the words settle.
“I’m the Director of Academic Affairs. I oversee all disciplinary matters related to academic integrity. Every case of plagiarism, cheating, or fraud crosses my desk.”
