The responses stunned me.
My cousin Rachel called in tears. She said, “I remember Thanksgiving when we were kids. Your mom gave Vanessa the new dress and made you wear the one with the broken zipper.”
My uncle Mark said, “Your father has always treated love like a ranking system.”
Even my grandmother’s old neighbor, Mrs. Bell, messaged me through Facebook: Your mother always favored Vanessa. I am sorry nobody said it when you were little.
Every message hurt, but each one also unlocked something inside me.
I had not imagined it.
I had not been dramatic.
I had not been ungrateful.
The Chain on the Door
By August, we moved into a small townhouse on the other side of town.
It had two bedrooms, a little patch of grass out back, and a kitchen window that caught the morning sun.
On our first night there, we ate spaghetti on the floor because the table had not arrived yet.
