I look back toward the dining room table, where Kim and Jeff are folding their blue cashier’s checks into their wallets with wide, relieved smiles.

My belief that Ron and Judy treat all four of their children equally breaks right there beside the basement stairs.

Will Nate and I ever build a secure place of our own without begging for family money or waiting on someone else’s generosity?

I step back toward the table, where Kim is buttering her roll.

“Eat your dinner, Kim,” I say, pressing my thumb against my index finger under a fold of my apron.

Nate’s shirt pocket bulges slightly where the bluebird card lies flat against his chest.