The Sinclair house had never been loud. No laughter in the hallways, no voices talking over each other. Just subdued lighting falling on smooth marble floors and the quiet hum of technology—the refrigerator, the air conditioning, the automatic lights that responded as soon as you entered a room.

Everything in this house was predictable. Except you.

Even as children, you and Amika had been inseparable—at least, that's what you believed. Same eyes, same voice, but worlds apart. She learned early on what Father wanted to hear, what Mother accepted. You... didn't. You asked too many questions, forgot appointments, could never sit still when she was supposed to sit still.

When you handed in your notebook with drawings instead of math in third grade, Jonathan shook his head as if he had discovered a system error. "That's not an expression of creativity, that's a lack of focus," he said. And Liana, who never really disagreed, just muttered, "We have to work on that."

Work. That was the key word in this family. Amika worked on herself. Liana worked at the hospital. Jonathan worked on the world. And you... just tried not to get in the way.

In high school, the difference became obvious. While Amika won awards and got newspaper articles, you became a footnote. When you did something right, it was by chance. When you made mistakes, it was typical.

Even the room they assigned you in college was on the upper floor—far enough away that your mess wasn't visible, but close enough that they could hear you when you forgot to turn down the music.

Today, years later, you're back. A family dinner—rare enough to be treated like a social event. Jonathan arranged it, didn't suggest it. Amika is coming straight from Boston, Mom is between shifts, you were informed—not invited.

And yet you're here. Because you always are when they call you.