My Parents Gave My Oxford Spot to My Sister, So I Left

I opened my bedroom door, pulled a few empty cardboard boxes out from under the bed, and started packing the architectural sketches on my bookshelf one by one.

I'd just put two thick portfolios into a box when my door swung open.

Evan leaned against the doorframe, a secondary credit card in his hand. He tossed it onto my desk.

"Go buy yourself some clothes you like, or take a vacation in Hawaii." His tone made it clear he thought he was doing me a favor. "Camilla's been kind of depressed since the breakup, and her therapist says she needs a change of scenery. Your grades have always been good. You can get into a good school on your own. Giving her the letter keeps the peace in this house."

I looked at the shiny silver card and didn't reach for it.

Evan hadn't always been like this.

I still remembered the time I fell and hurt my knee when I was ten. Evan carried me on his back for two miles along a mountain trail. Dripping with sweat, he set me down on the couch and said, "Selena, I'll always protect you. I'll always save the best of everything for you."

But everything changed three years ago, when Camilla took time off from school and came home after a so-called "emotional breakdown."

In this house, tears got you whatever you wanted.

One tear from Camilla was enough to break everyone's heart. I was calm and independent, so they assumed I'd always let them walk all over me.

"No thanks." I pressed the portfolios down flat and taped the box shut. "I have my own card."

Evan frowned, clearly annoyed at how cold I was being.

"Selena, can you not be so petty about this?" He straightened up and raised his voice a little. "It's one recommendation letter. Dad already said he'll help you find a good mentor in London next year. Do you really have to ruin everyone's holiday?"

"I'm not upset." I looked up at him calmly. "I told you. She can have it."

Evan faltered. He seemed at a loss when I refused to argue.

He raked a hand through his hair in frustration and walked out, tossing one last line over his shoulder. "Whatever. The card's right there. Stop acting like the victim all the time."

He hadn't closed the door all the way, and I heard my mother, Alice Prescott, ask from the hallway, "Evan, is your sister still upset?"

"What does she have to be upset about? She's just embarrassed," Evan said. "She'll get over it in a few days. She's always the sensible one."

My mother let out a soft sigh. "I suppose. Selena's just too tough. She's nothing like Camilla, who makes you want to take care of her. Oh, and tell Selena something for me. Camilla's going to school in England, and she has way too many clothes and shoes. Have Selena clear out that big sunny study on the south side so we can turn it into a walk-in closet for Camilla. Selena's at school most of the time anyway. She doesn't need all that space."

I tightened my grip on the roll of tape, my knuckles turning pale. The tape tore with a harsh rip.

That big study on the south side had been my art studio since I was little. Every drawing and every model in there was part of my dream of becoming an architect.

To them, more than ten years of work toward my dream mattered less than the hundreds of dresses Camilla needed to pack for her trip to Europe to clear her head.

I didn't argue.

After all, I didn't need that study anymore.

I looked down at an email on my phone.

It was my acceptance letter from Harvard's Graduate School of Design, with a full scholarship and a personal invitation from Professor Adrian Hartwell.

"See you in Boston next Friday."

I locked my phone, tossed the tape aside, and went back to stuffing the last few sweaters into my suitcase.

It was okay. It was almost over.