I was eleven when the resentment finally boiled over inside me.

“He eats better than I do every single night, Mom,” I yelled, dropping my backpack on the linoleum.

Mom kept stirring the bubbling saucepan on the stove and wouldn’t raise her eyes to meet my anger.

“Cassie, please don’t start this fight today,” she whispered wearily.

“The power company shut off our electricity twice this winter, Mom,” I pressed on without mercy.

“And Lucas still gets a hot lunch and dinner every day like he’s our own flesh and blood.”