The comparisons start so young and so small.

One daughter is the sensitive one, the other the composed one.

One is praised for her grades, the other for her looks.

A grandmother favors one lap.

An aunt leaves a building to the niece who showed up.

Individually, each is nothing — a Tuesday, a passing remark, a will drawn up by a dying woman who simply loved the person who came.

But if you are the kind of person who keeps score, and no one ever helps you put the scorecard down, the small things accrue into a running total, a sum of grievance that follows you into adulthood and colors everything.