Every September, They Chose My Sister

Under the table, my fingernails dug crescents into my palms until they bled.

Mom had just spent twenty minutes arguing with Dad over seventeen extra days with Quinn.

Then, with one sentence, she found a reason to send me somewhere else.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from Ms. Alvarez, my advisor.

[Both summer programs gave you excellent evaluations. Northbridge University is only one state over, so I think it's worth serious consideration.]

I typed back:

[I've decided on Redstone.]

More than a thousand miles away.

That should be far enough to leave the first eighteen years of being unwanted behind me.

A moment later, another message came in.

[Have you discussed it with your parents?]

I lowered my eyes.

[No. But I'm eighteen. I can take responsibility for my own decision.]

Across the table, Quinn noticed me looking at my phone.

She tipped her chin toward me.

"Gwen doesn't look very happy about staying with Grandma and Grandpa."

She was right.

I wasn't.

At their house, I had to wake before sunrise to make breakfast for everyone.

When I got back from late study sessions, I still had to wash clothes for my two younger cousins.

I'd done it before.

I had no desire to do it again.

Mom frowned.

"Gwen, can you try thinking about the adults for once?

"There are management changes at work this year. This promotion matters. If I bring you with me and don't take care of you exactly the way you want, you'll spend days sulking again."

Dad nodded.

"She's right. You have a terrible temper. Last year I missed one parent-teacher conference and you gave me attitude for a week."

He snorted.

"Anyone listening would've thought you were the one paying my bills."

Mom shook her head at me in disappointment.

"Your sister had just started high school. Your father wanted to see how she was adjusting, so of course he went to her conference instead. Why can't you be more understanding?"

I loosened my grip on my phone case and looked at them.

"Starting high school is that important?

"Then why didn't either of you come to my conference when I was a freshman?"

Mom's eyes flickered.

Then her expression hardened again.

"Quinn was finishing middle school that year. Obviously we had to prioritize her."

Dad nodded immediately.

"There you go again, dragging up old grievances the second someone criticizes you. Her year mattered more."

My appetite vanished.

I set my fork down hard.

"Quinn's conference and mine weren't even on the same day.

"You don't have to work this hard to invent excuses. You just didn't care enough to remember mine. That's all."

For a second, Mom had nothing to say.

Dad immediately tried to distance himself from it.

"That wasn't my custody year for you. Don't blame me."

Quinn tapped her fork against her plate.

"Come on, Gwen.

"The only times we all sit down for a meal together are the holidays and the September handoff. Why ruin dinner by dragging this up?

"Maybe Mom was just swamped at work and forgot.

"It's one parent-teacher conference. You take everything so personally."

One conference?

It had been ten years.

Ten conferences.

Even before my parents divorced, the chair beside me at school functions had already started going empty.

Last year, Casey Kendall, the student who helped process financial-aid forms, pulled me aside after class.

"Gwen, this might be rude, but I wanted to ask you something.

"Is your family struggling? Do you need help applying for assistance?"

I stared at her, confused.

She lowered her voice, embarrassed.

"I heard from someone who went to middle school with you that maybe you don't really have family around. So I thought I should check."

What she meant was orphan.

Heat rushed to my face.

I wasn't angry at her.

What rose in me was something much bleaker than anger.

For years, not one classmate had seen my parents at a conference, an orientation, or a school event.

Of course people eventually made assumptions.

Casey was a kind person. I knew she hadn't meant to hurt me.

So I made myself smile.

"I'm not an orphan. I don't need financial aid, but thank you for asking."

That was why I'd begged Dad last year to please, just once, come to my conference.

He promised he would.

And he did come to the school.

I stood at the classroom window and spotted him crossing the parking lot.

For one stupid second, I was happy.

Then I watched his path bend toward the freshman building.

Toward Quinn.

For ten years, I swallowed disappointment because I wanted my divorced family to stay peaceful.

And what did that make me in their eyes?

Difficult.

Petty.

Ungrateful.

I should have stopped enduring it years ago.

A tear fell onto the words REDSTONE UNIVERSITY glowing on my phone.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled.

It was okay.

I didn't have to endure it anymore.