Chapter 4: The Shadow

Lillian and I are five years apart, so we never really had the typical sisterly fights. It’s hard to argue with someone who’s always been the star.

When she said that, I just stood there, stunned. Then my eyes started to burn, tears sliding down before I could stop them. Lillian rolled her eyes, muttered, “So dramatic,” and walked away.

But Mom found me, and somehow I was the one getting scolded. “Your sister’s dressing up for your sake. Would you rather she wore rags?” she snapped. “So petty.”

Was this really my fault? I doubted myself. But I couldn’t help it—I muttered, “Even at a wedding, the bridesmaid wouldn’t outshine the bride.”

Mom stared at me, surprised I’d talked back. To shut me up, she waved her hand. “Fine, you weren’t happy when we didn’t give you a party. Now you get one and still complain. If you keep this up, we’ll just cancel the whole thing.”

By then, I didn’t even want to go, but I’d already invited my teachers and friends, so I couldn’t back out. That night, I barely slept.

At the party, Lillian was right—as always. All eyes were on her. Even Caleb, my maybe-crush from school, went red when he saw her and forgot to say hi to me. When he finally turned my way, he looked confused, like he couldn’t remember why he’d come.

See, no matter how special a soul is, beauty always wins first glance. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. I traced the rim of the sink, wishing I could scrub away the ache in my chest as easily as mascara, wondering if having an extraordinary sister was a blessing or a curse.

But then a wild idea flashed through my mind. If I couldn’t avoid my sister’s shadow, maybe I could share her light. I marched out, looped my arm through hers, and followed her wherever she went. If she got attention, so did I—by proximity.

I introduced myself, loudly: “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I’m Natalie. This is my sister, Lillian.” Like maybe saying ‘my’ would make people see me, too.

It felt futile, but I had to try. Afterward, Dad told me, “Natalie, your homeroom teacher says you’re steady and reliable. Teachers love you.” I smiled, thinking, If you’d ever been to parent-teacher night, you’d know I was the English class president, not math. But I let it go. I had to—because soon, I’d be gone, and maybe then, I’d finally matter to someone.

I figured my allowance would be the same as Derek and Lillian’s when they started college—$1,500 a month. Instead, I got $1,200. I asked why.

Mom replied, “Times are different. The economy’s tough, and Dad’s company needs the cash flow. Plus, your brother’s preparing for marriage, and your sister’s work wardrobe isn’t cheap.” Then, the kicker: “Back then, having you cost the family a lot, so it’s only fair to deduct it now.”

I stared at the Venmo notification, the smaller number glaring back at me. It felt like being shortchanged for just existing.

Dad’s only in his late fifties, but his hair is already salt-and-pepper. I’m grateful for what he’s given me. But sometimes I think, It’s not like I asked to be born.