Chapter 1: Outshined

I am the least attractive child in my family.

There’s no hiding it—not from the way relatives look at me, or from the quiet sting of a stranger’s comment online. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the glow of the screen making it impossible to look away. My sister Lillian posted a family photo on Instagram, and it didn’t take long for someone to type what everyone else might have been thinking but never said to my face: “Wait, are you sure that’s your sister? Y’all don’t even look related.”

Another chimed in: “How can the two of you look so different?” Their words hung there. My stomach dropped. I scrolled up, then down, hoping the comments would disappear if I just kept moving. The kind of thing you scroll past but can’t ever unsee.

When my mom was young, folks all over Maple Heights talked about her beauty. She had that effortless grace—like she belonged on a billboard off the I-90. My dad was handsome too, with a clean-cut jaw and the kind of smile that lingered.

My older brother and sister are fraternal twins. When they were born, everyone at St. Matthew’s Hospital crowded around, cooing over how adorable they were, snapping Polaroids for the baby board. Even the nurses kept peeking in.

So when my mom learned she was pregnant again, all their friends cheered her on: “The first two are so good-looking, the third will be just as cute!”

But I let everyone down. My face shape, features, even my skin tone—all seemed to dodge my parents’ best genes, as if the universe ran out of the good stuff on its third try.

I’m the least attractive person in the family. That’s not self-pity; it’s just how things shook out. Kids don’t sugarcoat things—they just gravitate to the ones they like. So from early on, the cousins skipped me when choosing teams for backyard football, leaving me clutching the lemonade, watching from the porch.

As for my parents, they prided themselves on being enlightened, always quick to say, “We would never play favorites.” But walking through Target, past the Halloween candy aisle, where Lillian picked out pumpkin-shaped Reese’s, my mom always slipped her arm through Lillian’s, laughing at something only they seemed to get. If I tried to hold her hand, she didn’t pull away right away—but a few minutes later, she’d find a reason to tuck her hair or reach for her phone, and my hand would fall away, unnoticed.

Even academic talent seemed to skip me. Derek and Lillian sailed through AP classes and landed spots at top-tier colleges. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even test into the advanced class in middle school. When they had their joint college acceptance party at Uncle Stan’s house, Dad got a little too deep into the whiskey and sighed, loud enough for the aunts to hear: “If only we’d stopped at Derek and Lillian. Too bad there’s still Natalie.”

The relatives nodded, clinking glasses in agreement. Even Aunt Jen, who never liked Dad much, let out a low whistle. I felt like I was sitting on a pile of pine needles, stomach tight, face burning. I don’t even remember how my thirteen-year-old self made it through that dinner, but I do remember staring at the green beans on my plate and trying not to cry.

Afterward, Dad realized he’d messed up and pulled me aside. “Dad didn’t say that right. Natalie, don’t take it to heart.” He tried to smooth it over: “Senior year is tough, not just for students but for us parents, too. Derek and Lillian are in college now, but I can’t relax yet. I still need to help you grow up. There’s a long road ahead.”

I wanted to believe him. But his words echoed in my head, louder than the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

Derek and Lillian’s names both mean something precious. But Natalie? Just means ‘born at Christmas.’ Plain, nothing special. Even in naming us, my cultured parents made sure meaning went to the first two.

And apologizing comes so easily to them. I gave Dad a half-smile. “I know you didn’t mean it, Dad.”

...It’s not intentional, just an honest slip of the tongue. Or maybe it’s just the truth slipping out, and we all pretend not to notice.

When I was fifteen, on my parents’ silver anniversary, we all piled into the minivan and drove to a photo studio for a family portrait. Lillian grabbed a snap on her phone, posted it to Instagram with the caption: “A family of five, happiness through all four seasons.” Comments poured in before the photographer even told us to say cheese.

I sat next to her, close enough to see the screen. Most said, “Your parents are so elegant,” or “Your brother is so handsome, is he single?” Then came the ones that stung: “Your sister must have been adopted, she doesn’t look like anyone else in the family.” And, “Before, when you said your sister wasn’t cute, I thought you were just being modest. Turns out you weren’t.”

In the studio, Mom and Dad were fussing with Derek over whether to switch the backdrop to a blue or gray gradient. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Lillian purse her lips, block that commenter, then glance at me. She didn’t say anything, just scrolled on. Really, she didn’t need to. Her younger sister wasn’t pretty—just a fact, as obvious as saying the sky is blue. No point fighting it.

But somewhere deep down, I still wished, even just once, that Lillian might say a word in my defense. Just once, maybe.