Lily was three years younger than me and had been Victoria’s favorite weapon from the beginning. When they first came into our lives, she’d been this quiet, wide-eyed girl clutching a stuffed rabbit, looking at everything in our house like she couldn’t believe it was real. Somewhere along the way, Victoria had turned her into an echo: same cutting tone, same tilted head when she lied, same entitlement carefully cultivated like a hothouse flower.
Every achievement of mine had been overshadowed by Lily’s needs. If I got an A, Lily got a party for getting a B. If I won an essay competition, the conversation quickly shifted to Lily’s recital next month. Holidays had been arranged around Lily’s schedule, Lily’s sports, Lily’s whims. When Mom died, that imbalance turned into a canyon.
I hadn’t even known about the graduation party Lily accused me of ruining until I saw the photos on social media. Smiling faces. Balloons. A banner that read CONGRATS, LILY! WE’RE SO PROUD OF YOU! My father and Victoria, flanking her, beaming.
My name had never come up.