The Daughter They Forgot

"After we finished Rianne's, we realized we didn't have enough cherry wood left. We didn't have a choice, so we used your tree too."

Martha Bates, my mother, sounded impatient. "Enough already. What's done is done. Just buy a couple of trunks when the time comes. Who are you making that face for?"

As I watched them gathered around my sister, Rianne Bates, I remembered what my parents had once told my brother, Ace Bates.

"Make sure you build your sisters' hope chests well. They carry a daughter's happiness for the rest of her life."

Turns out, when they said "daughter," they didn't mean me.

If that was how they felt, then I didn't want them anymore.

...

"Mom, look! There are cherry blossoms carved on all four sides of the chest!"

Mom gently traced the carvings with her fingers, her voice thick with emotion. "My precious girl deserves the very best hope chests. That's the only way she'll look respectable. Otherwise people will gossip."

So Mom knew. She knew a poorly made bridal hope chest would be laughed at.

Yet I didn't even have one, and she didn't think there was anything wrong with that because the one people would laugh at was me. She simply didn't care.

My father, Ira Bates, stepped over and ruffled Rianne's hair. "Your mom and I have prepared everything you'll need. Hold your head high in your husband's home. If anyone gives you even the slightest bit of trouble, come straight back home."

Just a week ago, he'd told me something completely different.

"Once you're married, you belong to your husband's family. If you're wronged, learn to put up with it."

I stood against the living room wall, staring at the intricate floral carvings on the brass latches. My fists tightened, then slowly relaxed.

I swallowed the words, "Aren't I your daughter too?"

What was the point?

I'd asked that question countless times growing up. Every time, the answer was the same: "Do you really have to compete over this too?"

Then came the same excuses, over and over.

"Your sister's been frail ever since she was little."

"You're the older sister. Let her have it."

Rianne and I were twins. I weighed 6 ounces more than she did when we were born.

From that day on, our parents decided I was the one who should always give in.

When we were kids, and the family could only afford to send one child to summer camp, Mom told me to let Rianne go.

In college, I worked part-time for three months to buy myself a camera. Rianne liked it, and Mom told me to give it to her.

When I finally set my wedding date, I quietly thought that, at last, I could be the main character for once.

After all, there was only one bride at my wedding. Surely no one could take that from me.

But after Rianne found out, she insisted on getting married on the very same day.

And just like that, my hope chest was gone too.

Not far away, Rianne was still clinging to Mom's arm. "Mom, can you make spicy chicken cacciatore tonight?"

Mom smiled and tapped her lightly on the forehead. "You little foodie."

For the past two weeks, Rianne had been picking every dinner because she said she wouldn't be able to eat Mom's cooking after she got married.

She loved spicy food, so every meal for the past two weeks had been loaded with chilies. On the other hand, I had stomach problems and couldn't eat spicy food.

The very first day Rianne picked the menu, I said to Mom, "My stomach's been acting up. Could you make one dish without chilies? Anything is fine."

Mom slammed her cutlery onto the table. She said evenly, "I guess this is just my lot in life. No matter how hard I work taking care of this family, somehow I'm still the wrong one."

With that single sentence, I became the family's villain. The looks Dad and Ace gave me hurt more than being yelled at ever could.

After that, I stopped saying anything. I simply ate what I could.

Ace suddenly looked at me and frowned. "Rory, what are you standing there for? Go buy the groceries."

In this family, the only time they ever seemed to remember I existed was when someone needed groceries bought, floors mopped, or trash taken out.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something.

In the end, all I managed was a quiet, "Okay."

That night, Mom made three dishes: spicy chicken cacciatore, cajun shrimp, and chili. The whole family ate with gusto.

As Rianne gobbled a shrimp, she suddenly looked at me. "Rory, why are you eating plain pasta? Aren't you going to eat any of the food?"

Mom added another scoop of chili to the mountain already piled in Rianne's bowl before shooting me a glare. "Don't mind her. Every day she acts like somebody owes her something."

Ace looked at me with the same disgust. "If you've got something to say, then say it. Can you stop walking around with that miserable look on your face?"

But I had spoken. No one had listened.

After dinner, I washed the dishes as usual, scrubbing away the thick layer of spicy oil.

Laughter drifted in from the living room. They were flipping through the family photo album.

Suddenly Dad suggested, "Before Rianne gets married, let's take another family portrait tomorrow."

I had just walked out of the kitchen. My footsteps came to an abrupt stop.

"Dad, I have my wedding dress fitting tomorrow."

He didn't even bother looking up. "Then go."

He said it so naturally that my chest tightened because he truly believed it could still be called a family portrait, even without me.

I turned and went back to my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

A message from my fiance, Diego Dougherty, popped up.

[The wedding's been moved up by a day. Have your parents agreed?]

[Yeah. Go ahead and sign the paperwork for your international assignment. I'll go with you.]