Grateful for leaving college when my father’s construction business got into trouble and “everyone had to sacrifice,” even though I was the only one who actually gave anything up.

Claire kept studying fashion in New York because, according to my mother, “she has presence.” Logan was given enough money to launch three businesses, all of which had failed before he turned thirty.

I learned how to prepare invoices, answer phones, care for my sick grandmother, and smile whenever someone said, “Emily is the strong one.”

The strong one was just the person everyone expected to carry everything without anyone asking whether her back was breaking.

So I cooked. I checked the turkey, reheated the green bean casserole my mother insisted on “to keep things traditional,” served mashed potatoes, sliced bread, washed dishes, and refilled wine glasses.

Every time I entered the dining room, I heard my mother praising Claire.

“My beautiful daughter has always known how to shine.”

Then she’d gesture toward Logan. “And him—even if he’s a little wild—he was born for business.”

No one asked about me. No one noticed that my own plate was still empty beside the sink.

Around eight o’clock, while I scrubbed a burned serving tray, the doorbell rang. The dining room went quiet at once. First I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Then the nervous voice of the young housekeeper.

“Mr. Whitmore… someone is here to see you.”