I learned early that maturity was not always praise. Sometimes it was the word adults used when they wanted the dependable child to accept less.

My father noticed the imbalance, though he rarely challenged it directly. He worked long hours managing commercial properties with his older brother, Richard.

He loved us, but he was exhausted, and my mother had a talent for turning every unfair decision into a harmless misunderstanding. When I was fourteen, Kendra wanted new bedroom furniture.

My parents told me summer art camp was impossible because money was tight. Two weeks later, a white delivery truck arrived. I stood in the driveway while workers carried a canopy bed into Kendra’s room.

My father found me watching.

“I’m sorry, honey.”