On Christmas morning, my parents smiled and handed my sister a key…

Meanwhile, Jenna was still squealing, holding her new house key up to the light, like it was made of diamonds instead of debt and favoritism. Margaret dabbed her eyes with a napkin and whispered something about granite countertops and walk-in closets. I looked down at the envelope again.

Thin, no card, just my name handwritten in the corner in my mother’s looping cursive, a style she’d perfected on PTA flyers and Christmas tags. I ran my finger along the flap, but didn’t open it. Because before I even knew what was inside, I already knew what it meant.

It meant they saw me the same way they always had. I was nine the first time I baked my own birthday cupcakes, chocolate with too much oil and not enough sugar. Margaret helped, but only because Jenna had ballet rehearsal and didn’t want the kitchen to smell weird later.

That morning, I came downstairs early, smiling, hopeful, thinking, maybe there’d be balloons, a card, something. The kitchen was empty, no gifts, no candles, just the smell of burnt toast and Margaret humming to herself while brushing Jenna’s hair in the next room. That same year, Jenna had a backyard party with ponies.

Even neighbors we didn’t like came by bearing glittery presents and compliments rehearsed for someone else’s child. By the time I hit middle school, I’d stopped expecting anything. When I graduated with honors, Margaret didn’t come.

Jenna had a regional dance competition. I got a text that said, so proud, sorry we couldn’t be there, go get em. When I placed first at the State Science Fair hydroelectric dam model, fully functional, Douglas showed up 15 minutes late and left before the awards.

He had a golf tee time with someone important. The following week, when Jenna landed a 30-second shampoo commercial, they threw a dinner party. Champagne.

Framed the product shot like it was a Pulitzer. There was a moment I go back to more than I should. Senior year.

Academic awards night. I had worked hard, brutally hard. Juggled two part-time jobs.

Maintained a 4.00 GPA. Wrote papers until my fingers cramped and my eyes blurred. They called my name for the top scholarship in front of a packed auditorium.

I walked on stage, scanned the crowd, and there she was. Margaret Frontrow, not clapping, just scrolling on her phone. When I stepped down with the certificate still warm in my hands, she looked up and said loud enough for the parents nearby to hear, Well, at least she’s good at something.

That one sentence sliced through the applause like a serrated knife. Even now I can still hear it. I used to wonder if I was imagining it all, if I was just the bitter child in the shadow of a shinier sibling…