The scoreboard could be read in a hundred tiny rituals. Chloe had dance classes—tap, ballet, jazz, and later contemporary—with glittering recital costumes that Tina made me steam on the dining room table while Chloe practiced spins in the living room and my father beamed like he’d personally invented her grace. She got new shoes every school year, sometimes twice, because dancers need support and because public school hallways are hard on leather. Her birthday parties were productions with rental decorations, themed cakes, and gift bags for guests. My birthdays became dinners at home where Tina said things like, “We kept it simple because Elena isn’t really a fuss person,” as if a preference had been consulted instead of imposed.
When Chloe turned sixteen, my father handed her a set of car keys tied with a red ribbon. Everyone gathered in the driveway under string lights while she screamed and jumped and threw her arms around his neck. “That’s my girl,” he said, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and the pride in his voice landed like a door closing somewhere inside me.