“It’s my cake,”
Christmas was worse.
Valerie’s pile looked like a department store window. Dollhouses with working lights. Boots in her exact size.
Every gift had been thought about.
Mine came from whatever was left in the bag, usually socks and a gift card Diane grabbed at the gas station.
Valerie’s pile looked like a department store window.
Once, when I was ten, I asked why.
Just asked, nice as I could.
“You should learn to share,” Dad said, without looking up from his coffee.
Share what? I hadn’t been given anything to share.
But I learned something that day.
Asking for equal treatment only got me a new charge: selfish, jealous, ungrateful.
Share what? I hadn’t been given anything to share.
So I stopped asking.
I stopped expecting, too, which hurts less than you’d think. Mostly it just goes quiet.
***
As we got older, I became the reliable one.
If Valerie made a mess, I was expected to help fix it. At sixteen, I even covered for her after she snuck out to a party.
Dad and Diane called me a good sister. Mostly, I was tired.
