Chapter 10 — The Favored Daughter

Marissa had always occupied the center of our childhood. She danced competitively from age four. Our household revolved around rehearsals, costumes, music, recitals, and trophy ceremonies.

Mom called her gifted. Dad called her our star. I carried garment bags, water bottles, bobby pins, and the camera. During recitals my parents sat in the front row holding flowers.

I sat several rows behind them and watched the extra shoes. When Marissa cried, plans changed. When I needed something, Mom called me mature. For years I understood that word as praise.

Grandma Evelyn explained the truth when I was eight. My parents had left me at home while they drove Marissa to a weekend competition. They promised to return before dinner.

A tire problem delayed them until nearly midnight. Grandma found me sitting at the kitchen table eating a peanut-butter sandwich. She did not arrive dramatically.

She brought soup in a blue pot, switched on the television, and sat beside me until my parents came home.