That was their word for me.
Victoria was sensitive. Victoria was delicate. Victoria was special.
I was adaptable.
Dinner was its own ceremony of exclusion.
We ate at a long rectangular table. Victoria sat at my mother’s right hand. My father sat at the head. They faced one another in a neat little triangle of warmth and attention. I sat at the corner closest to the kitchen, which made it easier to get up when somebody wanted a drink refilled, the salt passed, a plate cleared, or a napkin fetched.
I was eleven when I realized I was the only person who ever left the table during meals.
Conversation orbited Victoria the way planets circle a sun.
“Victoria, how was school?”
“Victoria, tell us about art class.”
“Victoria, that sweater is gorgeous on you.”
Whenever I spoke, eyes glazed over in under half a minute. My mother would nod absently, murmur, “That’s nice,” and then turn back to Victoria.
By twelve, I stopped trying.
Allowance made everything unmistakably clear.
Victoria got three hundred dollars a week “for expenses.” Those expenses included Starbucks every morning, weekly manicures, and clothes she wore once before tossing aside.
I got twenty-five dollars a week, but only if every chore was finished.
My chores were cleaning both bathrooms, vacuuming the entire house, doing all the laundry for the four of us, washing dishes after every meal, and maintaining the backyard.
Victoria’s chore list consisted of occasionally emptying the dishwasher, if she remembered.
She never remembered.
