Chapter 1
The weight of the homemade pumpkin pie helped steady my hands as I stood outside my parents’ elegant suburban house.
Through the leaded-glass panels beside the front door, I saw brief flashes of movement inside.
Twenty-four relatives gathered beneath the warm light of my mother’s treasured crystal chandelier.
For a moment, I considered leaving.
I could return to my apartment, warm up a frozen meal, and spend Thanksgiving watching pointless television alone.
Then Dad spotted me through the glass.
“There she is!”
His voice carried through the entryway as he opened the door.
“Our number cruncher has arrived.”
I forced a smile before stepping inside.
The scents of roasted turkey and sage wrapped around me.
My plain, dark-teal dress suddenly seemed inadequate against the glittering decorations filling my mother’s home.
“Oh, you brought dessert,” Mom said.
She took the pie and placed a quick kiss on my cheek.
Her gaze immediately moved past me toward the driveway.
“Is that everything you brought?”
“Only me and the pie.”
I tried to keep my tone cheerful.
“I made it from scratch.”
Dad gave my shoulder a light pat.
“Skyla works with numbers.”
“A very stable profession.”
“She is always punctual.”
The praise sounded like a disguised criticism.
Always punctual.
Always dependable.
Always dull.
I had heard some variation of those words my entire life.
Mom’s phone chimed.
Her face brightened instantly.
“That is your sister.”
“She is running slightly late.”
“Thirty minutes and counting,” I murmured.
No one noticed.
I was guided toward the living room, where relatives stood holding cocktails and plates of appetizers.
Uncle Warren lifted his drink.
“The accountant has arrived.”
“How is life balancing those books, Skyla?”
“I am an internal auditor,” I corrected while taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“And business is—”
The room suddenly went silent.
Conversations stopped midway through sentences.
Every face turned toward the entrance.
Marissa had arrived.
My sister walked in thirty minutes late, looking as though she had stepped directly from a fashion magazine.
A camel-colored Max Mara coat rested flawlessly across her shoulders.
The Prada bag hanging from her wrist likely cost more than a month of my rent.
“Sorry I am late,” she announced.
There was no apology in her voice.
“Traffic was absolutely terrible.”
Mom hurried to greet her.
The pride shining in her expression was something she never showed when presenting me to anyone.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
She touched Marissa’s sleeve.
“Is this new?”
Marissa smiled.
“I bought it last weekend.”
“The color spoke to me.”
“You work so hard,” Mom replied.
“You deserve to reward yourself.”
I swallowed the rest of my champagne.
The irony stung more than the bubbles.
Marissa had not held a stable job in three years.
She drifted between consulting positions that ended quickly but always came with impressive-sounding titles.
Dinner was announced before I could find another drink.
I ended up seated between Cousin Lauren and Uncle Warren’s newest girlfriend, whose name I had already forgotten.
Across the table, Marissa dominated the conversation.
She entertained everyone with stories about her newest venture involving luxury brands and social media.
“Skyla?”
Lauren turned toward me during a pause.
She lowered her voice.
“I wanted to ask something about my student loans.”
“The interest is becoming impossible.”
“Do you know whether I could restructure them?”
I leaned closer, genuinely happy to assist.
“There is a program I recently read about.”
“When your income is below a certain amount—”
“Not everyone wants a mathematics lecture during dinner,” Mom interrupted from three seats away.
Her hearing had suddenly become remarkably sharp.
She smiled at Lauren.
“Why don’t you ask Marissa?”
“She is excellent with money.”
The table went still.
I looked down at my plate, my fork hovering above untouched turkey.
Marissa laughed softly.
The sound reminded me of ice tapping crystal.
“Skyla is always calculating numbers,” she said, slowly circling the wine in her glass.
“And always short of money, apparently.”
Heat spread across my face.
“I manage my finances perfectly well.”
“Do you?”
Marissa raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Then why are you always asking people for loans?”
The dining room seemed to turn ten degrees colder.
Twenty-three pairs of eyes moved between us like spectators watching a match.
“I have never asked you for money.”
My voice remained controlled despite the pounding in my ears.
“Not once.”
“Not once?”
Marissa rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Please.”
“You need to stop begging for money.”
“It is embarrassing.”
The accusation hit with almost physical force.
My ears rang at the sheer audacity of the lie.
She had reversed reality completely.
No one spoke.
No one came to my defense.
Not even our parents, who knew exactly which way the money had always flowed.
“Speaking of embarrassing,” Dad interrupted with forced enthusiasm.
“Did anyone watch the Seahawks game last Sunday?”
“That fourth quarter was incredible.”
Conversation resumed awkwardly.
My humiliation remained abandoned in the middle of the room, something everyone had decided to step around.
I sat motionless.
For a moment, I was ten years old again, emptying my piggy bank to help pay for Marissa’s dance costume.
“Your sister needs it more,” Mom had said while patting my head.
“She has a recital.”
“You are the practical one, Skyla.”
The practical daughter.
The responsible daughter.
The one expected to give things up.
When dessert arrived, I excused myself.
Inside the powder room, I locked the door behind me.
My hands shook.
My thoughts had never been clearer.
I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app.
Five automatic payments were linked to accounts bearing Marissa’s name.
Five years.
Fifty-two thousand eight hundred dollars.
An average of eight hundred eighty dollars each month.
Car insurance.
Credit-card minimums.
May you like
Personal-loan payments.
The proof of my sister’s financial dependence appeared in neat, orderly rows across the screen.
