“My cousin’s a genius. Juggling chicks like a
pro. Screwing around in her dad’s study. What a
legend.”
I scribbled in my notebook, barely containing
my contempt. This was Sarah’s “true love.” The
“happily ever after” that cost me my life. Just a
joke. Someone else’s punchline.
Fine. Let them have each other.
That night, the battlefield was cleaned up. But
when Sarah clung to Mom, begging for money
for a “photography workshop” out of state, her
shirt shifted. Hickies. Everywhere.
She didn’t know Dad had fixed the study’s
security camera. Their little performance was
recorded in HD. One word to Dad and her life
would implode.
I smiled, looked down. Caught Sarah’s eye.
“What are you smiling at, Ashley?”
- 4.
“You get to go on fancy trips with Grandma’s
<
money, but when I ask, Mom says no. Funny,
isn’t it? That I’m the unwanted one?”
“Grandma loved you best. You’re so happy,
aren’t you? Rubbing it in my face. So great.”
Tears welled. She looked like a delicate flower
trembling in the breeze. Like the girl I’d seen
clawing at Jake’s neck that afternoon was a
hallucination.
“Fine. I get it. I’m the loser. The unloved one.
Happy now?”
She ran to her room, sobbing into her pillow. I
hadn’t said a word. But somehow, I was the
villain.
Mom glared, her heels clicking on the marble
floor. The slap was coming. I looked up, all
innocence.
“Mom, let her go. Use the money from my
piano lessons.”
Her hand froze. Stunned. Grandma’s money
was sacred to me. It was my future. The only
love I’d ever truly known.
“Mom, I don’t want you to be upset. Or Dad.
You work so hard for us. It’s just a workshop.
<
Why not let her go?”
“There’s still a thousand dollars left from the
refund, right? Give it to her.”
“I don’t want her to misunderstand. Your love
for us is…equal.”
The “equal” made her flinch. She knew. It was a
lie. But I had to play along. Sarah had a
honeymoon to plan.
Before Mom could unleash her fury, Dad roared
from upstairs. Sarah was swallowing sleeping
pills.
- 5.
Dad stopped her. But Mom was terrified.
“You little monster! You want to kill me? It’s
just a thousand dollars! Take it!”
“Every penny I earn is yours! You can have my
life! What’s money?”
Tears streamed down her face. Dad, pale,
clutched his chest.
“Don’t do this, sweetheart. Daddy’s old. My
heart can’t take it.”
He turned on me, eyes blazing.
“Ashley, can’t you leave her alone? You want to
<
drive her to her grave?”
“She’s depressed because of you! What more
do you want?”
My breath hitched. The storm. Always landing
on me.
Sarah had a couple of bogus diagnoses and a
flair for the dramatic. Two suicide attempts,
three runaway episodes, and she was officially
“depressed.” My parents bought it hook, line,
and sinker. Treated her like fragile glass. She
got everything she wanted. I got the cramped
storage room, her hand–me–downs, meals
eaten huddled in the kitchen, out of her sight.
She learned fast. Every whim denied, a fresh
bout of “depression.” Sitting alone in the dark,
scaring my parents. Wrist–slashing. Pill-
popping. It worked. She got her way. I became
the problem child. Because I was the only one
stupid enough to point out the act. Each time,
another “episode.” Another punishment.
Grandma’s jewelry became Sarah’s “little
trinkets.” My tutoring, my hobbies, her stepping
stones.
