It was not enough, but the scholarships made up the difference. Merit-based, need-based, anything I could apply for. I sent in forty-seven applications.
I got thirty-two.
I was accepted into the University of Washington pre-med program with a seventy-five-percent scholarship.
When the acceptance letter arrived, I showed it to my mother.
She was helping Victoria choose outfits for a party.
“Washington?” she said, frowning. “That’s far.”
“It’s forty-five minutes away.”
“Still. Who’s going to help around the house?”
“Mom, it’s college.”
“What about your sister? She needs you here.”
“She’s sixteen. She doesn’t need me.”
My mother’s jaw tightened. “Don’t be selfish, Evelyn. Family comes first.”
I heard that sentence my entire life.
Family comes first.
Funny how it only applied when the family wanted something from me.
Two months later, Victoria got into Seattle Community College.
My parents threw a party.
Twenty-five guests. A three-tier cake with Our College Girl piped in pink frosting. Balloons everywhere. A banner across the living room.
I was asked to serve drinks.
So I walked around with trays of lemonade while relatives I barely knew congratulated Victoria on her achievement. My parents glowed with pride. Victoria posed for photograph after photograph that would probably end up framed on the wall where I barely existed.
No one asked me about the University of Washington.
No one asked about the scholarship.
No one asked about anything.
At one point, Great-aunt Dorothy found me alone in the kitchen.
She was the only relative who ever seemed to notice when I disappeared.
“Evelyn.” She took my hand. Her fingers were thin and warm. “I heard about Washington. Pre-med. That’s extraordinary.”
Tears rose so fast it embarrassed me. I blinked them back.
“Thank you, Aunt Dorothy.”
She squeezed my hand harder. “Your grandfather would be so proud.”
I frowned. “Grandfather? I thought he died before I was born.”
Something passed over her face—fear, grief, maybe both.
“That’s what they told you?”
“Yes. Mom and Dad said—”
“Evelyn!” my mother called from across the room. “We need more ice. Now.”
Dorothy let go of my hand, then leaned in and whispered so softly I almost thought I imagined it.
“He’s not dead, sweetheart. And neither are you. Not to him.”
Then she walked away.
I stood there with an empty ice bucket in my hands, trying to understand what that could possibly mean.
Later that night, I asked my parents.
