Amber’s future filled the house. Boxes arrived. New luggage. New towels. New lamps. My mother made lists in bright, cheerful handwriting. My father paid deposits without complaint. Amber posted countdowns online about dream schools and new beginnings.
I worked extra shifts at a bookstore downtown and applied for scholarships between customers.
Sometimes my mother stood in my doorway and asked, “How is your planning going?”
“Fine,” I said.
She always looked relieved when I did not explain.
I began noticing old differences more clearly. When Amber wanted something, it became a family project. When I needed something, it became a lesson in responsibility. She got the car because she had “more activities.” I got bus schedules and praise for being resourceful. She went to leadership camp because it would help her applications. I worked summers because it built character. She needed an expensive prom dress because photos mattered. I found one on clearance and was told I looked pretty because I could “pull off simple.”
Simple.
Easygoing.
Independent.
They were never compliments.
They were excuses.
The final confirmation came by accident. My mother left her phone on the kitchen counter, and a message from Aunt Valerie lit the screen.
I feel bad for Maya, Mom had written. But Grant is right. Amber stands out more. We have to be practical.
Practical.
A clean word laid over something rotten.
I put the phone back exactly where it had been and went upstairs.
Something inside me did not break.
It settled.
The week before school began, Amber flew with my parents to California for Briarwood orientation. Her photos looked like postcards: stone buildings, ivy walls, sunny lawns, smiling upperclassmen. My mother commented on every picture. My father shared one and wrote, Proud of our Amber. Bright future ahead.
I packed my life into two worn suitcases and a backpack.
