Chapter 5: Gifts and Goodbyes

On the eve of Rachel’s move to D.C., Dad took the whole family to the old family chapel to inform the ancestors and God. By candlelight, the bond between father and daughter felt more like boss and employee. Dad held the family Bible, kneeling for prayers, all business, no softness.

Rachel rushed to help him, but Dad said quietly, "Tradition matters." This kneeling was to the power of the White House, and a lesson: from now on, family ties come second to power.

As dawn approached, Mom personally dressed Rachel. Tens of thousands of dollars were split into twelve envelopes, the biggest one tucked in her purse, silver dollars sewn into the corners of her maid’s handkerchief. Dad handed her a cedar box—inside, an antique ivory seal and a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. "There are eighty-six trusted contacts in D.C.; from now on, they’ll all answer to you."

My oldest brother gave her a business card. "This woman’s the top OB-GYN, already registered at the best hospital."

Second brother handed over a deed. "The three busiest streets in Hamilton—these are for you."

Caroline and I, not yet of age, gave her personal lockets and sachets, the lockets warm in the palm, the sachets filled with calming lavender.

Caroline was the last to step forward. She held a peacock-feathered shawl embroidered with gold thread, its feathers shimmering in the candlelight, every stitch full of meaning. "My sewing’s not great; I just hope you’ll wear this and soar."

As she spoke, a single tear fell on the peacock’s eye. "I remember, when I was little and learning to embroider, I could never get it right. Rachel held my hand, teaching me stitch by stitch."

Rachel’s smile froze. When she looked up again, most of it was the pain of betrayal; the rest was the memory of that Fourth of July, when Caroline shielded her from a firework, leaving a faint scar on her arm.

Family drama always starts quietly and ends without a fight. At that moment, I finally understood: every gold thread on the shawl was woven with unspoken feelings—some calculation, some real love. Just like under the wisteria years ago, she pushed Rachel into the mess, then hid behind the garden wall, crying into her sleeve. In our house, forgiveness always sits beside strategy.

Rachel spent a year in D.C.; the next year, Caroline’s marriage was arranged. When the golden leaves fell, Mom took Caroline’s hand and said gently, "The Foster family may not be famous, but they have real military service and a clean name—they’ll treat you right."

The title of Army Captain sounds impressive, but it’s really just a name. Caroline’s face lost its usual spark. She blurted out, losing her cool: "Is this… Grace’s idea?"

Mom replied sharply, "Grace works deep in the White House—how could she care about such things?"

"Then… did Dad change his mind? What about the Governor’s son…"

Mom’s eyes went cold. "What’s it got to do with the Governor’s son? Since the Connellys have a daughter in D.C., we have to avoid any suspicion."