You remember the early years like a half-lit photograph: Your mother, Emily brushing your hair gently before school, Your father; Anthony teaching you how to tie your shoelaces while your sister, Carly twirled nearby in her glittery dress. Back then, it felt like family.

Then came ten. A strange shift, not loud, but suffocating. Your birthday passed with barely a glance. They stopped packing your lunch, stopped asking how your day had gone. The space around you thickened—not with anger, but absence. Carly still got everything. Praise, gifts, attention. She became the center, and you—just the spare.

Now you’re thirteen. She’s sixteen. The walls in your house hold more love for the echo of Carly’s laugh than for anything you say. You’ve learned to be quiet around them. To move without making noise. Your dinners are taken at the edge of the table, sometimes forgotten completely. Sometimes you pretend you’re not hungry just to avoid the looks.

They talk around you, not to you.

Emily posts Carly’s dance photos online with captions like “Our one and only light.” Anthony buys Carly a new phone while yours glitches with every tap. And when you ask for something—anything—they shrug or say, “You have what you need.”