My mother is the most celebrated starry-sky painter in the City Art Coalition. On my sister’s tenth birthday, she spent all day on a ladder, painting a massive galaxy mural across her bedroom wall. My sister pointed to the brightest star and said, “Mom, write my name on that one.” Mom smiled and repainted it three times until it was perfect. I handed her the sketchbook I’d saved up for six months to buy, begging her to draw a little cat on the first page. She didn’t even look at it. She just pushed the pencil back to me. “Use the copier,” she said. “It looks exactly the same.” Later, her new exhibition opened. The theme was “The Universe I Gave to My Two Daughters”. On the promotional poster, my sister stood in front of the galaxy wall, her dress swirling like a cloud. I stood in the corner of the gallery, my name tag reading: “Volunteer”. A reporter asked her, “Did your eldest daughter inherit your artistic talent too?” Mom hesitated for a fraction of a second, then smiled. “She’s more practical. She handles the logistics.” My sister, holding a bouquet, chimed in, “Yeah, Isabel is really strong at carrying the heavy frames!” I looked down at the blank sketchbook in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to draw a little cat. It was just that she had never once thought of painting me into her world. … 1 “Isabel, the reporters want a family photo. Can you hold our coats for a second?” Daphne shoved a heavy bouquet of champagne roses into my arms. The sharp edge of the wrapping paper scraped against my wrist. “Sure.” I held the flowers and took a couple of steps back, retreating into the shadows where the camera flash couldn’t reach. My dad adjusted his silk tie and wrapped an arm around my mom’s shoulders. Daphne stood between them, her white tulle dress blooming like a cloud. “Click.” The camera captured the moment. The photographer glanced at the preview screen and smiled. “Ms. Croft, you have such a beautiful family. The genetics are incredible. Your youngest definitely inherited your artistic grace.” “A family of three.” I stood two yards away, a plastic volunteer badge hanging around my neck. On it, my name was scrawled in black Sharpie: “Volunteer”. My mom adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, her voice calm and elegant. “Art requires innate talent. Daphne indeed has that rare spark.” She paused, her gaze bypassing the photographer to land on me. “Isabel is more practical. She managed all the logistics and setup for this exhibition.” The photographer blinked, only just realizing I was also a member of the family. “Oh, the oldest daughter is here too! Want to step in for a quick photo?” “No need,” my dad said, checking his watch. “We’re on a tight schedule. Daphne’s been standing for four hours; her energy levels are depleted. We need to get her some carbs.” He turned to me. “Isabel, stay behind and coordinate the teardown and closing procedures with the gallery manager. This is a great opportunity to build your project management skills.” “The teardown will take at least two hours,” I said, looking at him. “It’s already eight p.m.” “Then you’ll need to work efficiently,” he replied, his tone as detached as a manager instructing an underling. Daphne walked over, tugging on my mom’s sleeve. “Mom, I want to go to that dry-aged steakhouse on Grand Avenue. If we’re late, we’ll lose our reservation.” “Alright, let’s go now,” my mom said, patting her hand. I looked at my mother. “Mom, Grand Avenue is twelve miles from here. By the time I finish cleaning up, the subway will have stopped running.” “You can take an Uber.” “My account ran dry last week.” My mom frowned. “Isabel, I’ve always taught you the importance of financial planning. Your monthly allowance is fixed. If you overspend, you must bear the consequences. That is basic adult responsibility.” She didn’t mention “why” my allowance was gone. She didn’t mention that two days ago, Daphne had set her heart on a rare, discontinued set of Winsor & Newton watercolors. Three hundred dollars. Half of my monthly budget. Daphne had whined that she was out of allowance and begged me to pay for it first, promising to pay me back. “Go ahead and finish up, Isabel,” Daphne said, giving me a quick wink. “I’ll Venmo you the Uber fare later.” She never did. And I never brought it up. Because I knew my parents wouldn’t care about such trivialities anyway. In their highly intellectual, rational world, only the weak or the extraordinarily gifted deserved attention. And as the “older sister,” I was default-programmed to be the one who sacrificed. At eleven p.m., I finally made it home on the night bus. When I pushed the front door open, the living room lights were still on. On the coffee table sat three empty takeout boxes from an upscale New American bistro. Next to them was an empty, elegant pastry box from a boutique bakery. Daphne hated strawberries. Those gourmet strawberry shortcakes had been my favorite. My mom was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through the exhibition’s feedback metrics on her iPad. She didn’t look up when the door opened. “There’s some leftover clam chowder in the kitchen. Microwave it for two minutes. It won’t lose its nutritional value.” I paused in the middle of taking off my shoes. “Are there no strawberry shortcakes left?” “Daphne wanted to try them,” my mom said, swiping the screen. “She took one bite, found it too sweet, so Richard finished it. It’s just a pastry. You can buy yourself one tomorrow.” “Just a pastry.” I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the empty box. “It was a seasonal limited-edition from the bakery on Grand. They only make twenty a day.” My mom finally looked up, her gaze behind her gold-rimmed glasses sharp and analytical. “Isabel, don’t waste your emotional energy on low-value sunk costs. You are an independent individual. If you’re going to compare and compete over a pastry, your artistic vision will never rise above mediocrity.” “Artistic vision.” She always used professional jargon to dress up her blatant favoritism. My dad walked out of his study, holding a thermos. “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? Tomorrow morning, you need to go to the art supply warehouse to pick up Daphne’s custom canvases. Double-check the weight and texture; she’s very particular about her materials.” “I have to submit my entry form for the Regional Youth Biennial tomorrow,” I said, looking at him. “You can submit it in the afternoon,” my dad said, taking a sip of water. “Daphne’s canvases are for next month’s Statewide Invitational. Her timeline is a higher priority. We must allocate resources rationally.” I didn’t argue. I walked to the pantry and opened it. Four boxes of organic strawberries sat in the fridge, prepped for Daphne’s morning fruit bowls. My single box of cheap dollar-store mac and cheese had been squeezed into the deepest, coldest corner of the pantry, the box crushed. I put a pot of water on the stove. The water boiled, bubbling away, as I dumped the dry macaroni in. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my thesis advisor. “Isabel, the competition for the Biennial’s preliminary round is incredibly fierce. Your mother is the Vice President of the Fine Arts Association—did you manage to get that letter of recommendation from her?” My grip on the utensils tightened. Last month, my mom had promised me. She said as long as my work met her professional standards, she would write it. I had pulled fourteen consecutive all-nighters to finish that painting. I turned off the stove and strained the mushy, overcooked macaroni into a bowl. Holding the bowl, I walked over to my mother. “Mom, about my painting, “Midnight Rain”… when can you give me the recommendation letter?” My mom’s finger hovered over her iPad. She put the tablet down, clasped her hands over her knees, and delivered her verdict in a detached, objective tone. “Isabel, I re-evaluated your piece.” “Your composition is too rigid. It lacks soul. It doesn’t resonate.” “So, I cannot write the letter.” 2 “You can’t write it?” I asked. “No,” my mom said, entirely unapologetic. “An association recommendation carries my professional reputation. I cannot compromise my academic standards just because you are my daughter. That would violate my professional ethics.” “Professional ethics.” Those two words felt like a mountain crushing the air out of my lungs. My dad walked over, patting her shoulder. “Your mother is right. There is no room for sentimentality in academia. Isabel, you need to learn to accept your own mediocrity. Not everyone is meant for the top of the pyramid.” I looked at the bowl of bland, overcooked pasta. I had completely lost my appetite. “But last month, you wrote a recommendation letter for Daphne’s finger-painting.” I raised my eyes, staring directly into my mother’s. “The perspective in that piece wasn’t even technically correct.” My mom’s expression chilled. “Daphne is only ten.” “She is ten, which is why her work is full of untamed vitality. It has the raw energy of Fauvism. If you don’t understand that, don’t use your rigid, exam-oriented mindset to judge her.” Ten. At ten years old, “vitality” could excuse any technical failure. But at twenty, the piece I had poured my soul into was dismissed as merely “rigid.” The bedroom door clicked open. Daphne walked out, rubbing her eyes, dragging a pink plush bunny behind her. “Mom, I can’t sleep. The stars on my galaxy wall aren’t bright enough.” My mom stood up instantly, the coldness on her face melting into pure warmth. “Not bright enough? But sweetheart, I used the best glow-in-the-dark pigment. Come on, let’s go take a look.” She didn’t give me a single glance as she followed Daphne into the bedroom. My dad checked his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. Clean up the kitchen when you’re done. Daphne is sensitive to food odors.” He turned and went back into his study. I was left alone in the living room. I walked over to the trash can and scraped the contents of my bowl into the garbage. Back in my room, I pulled open my desk drawer. Inside was that sketchbook. The first page was still blank. I had saved my allowance for six months when I was ten to buy it. I had wanted her to draw a little cat. She told me to use a copier. I flipped to the very last page. Tucked inside was a thick stack of receipts. The three-hundred-dollar watercolor receipt. A fifteen-hundred-dollar custom canvas preorder invoice. Four hundred dollars in gallery tickets. All of it paid out of my meager savings and part-time job earnings, advanced for Daphne’s needs. In this house, my money was a communal resource. Daphne’s desires were the highest command. The next morning. I didn’t go to the art warehouse to pick up her canvases. Instead, I went straight to the Biennial registration office. The coordinator flipped through my file. “Isabel Holloway, right? Your piece “Midnight Rain” passed the first round of reviews. But since you’re still a student and don’t have an institutional sponsor, you need to pay a three-hundred-dollar exhibition deposit.” “Sure, let me pay by card.” I opened my banking app. Balance: $8.65. I froze. Last night, I had exactly three hundred and ten dollars. I clicked on the transaction history. At 1:00 AM, an automatic transfer of three hundred dollars had cleared. Recipient: “Summit Art Camp”. It was the authorized family card my dad had linked to my account, which was normally used to cover my school fees. But yesterday, he had changed the settings to prioritize withdrawals from my account. My fingers grew cold as I stood at the counter. I dialed my dad’s number. It rang five times before he picked up. “What is it? I’m in a meeting,” he said quickly. “Dad, three hundred dollars was withdrawn from my account last night for the Summit Art Camp.” “Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “Daphne is going to Europe for a study program next month, and her registration fee was slightly short. I checked your account, saw you had exactly three hundred, so I transferred it over.” “That was my exhibition deposit.” “It’s just the Youth Biennial, Isabel. You won’t place anyway. Going there is just making up the numbers. The return on investment is too low.” There wasn’t even a hint of apology in his voice. “Dad, today is the deadline.” “Isabel,” his voice dropped, taking on a stern edge. “Don’t be difficult. Daphne’s trip to Europe will broaden her international perspective. It’s the most efficient use of our resources. Your three hundred dollars would have just sat there.” “That was my money. I earned it working a month of formatting layouts for my advisor.” “This family has supported you for twenty years, and you’re nickel-and-diming me now?” My dad’s logic was always ironclad. “I’ll transfer it back to you next month when my stipend clears. Don’t let a small amount of money disrupt family harmony.” The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in my ear. The coordinator nudged me gently. “Miss, are you going to pay? There are people waiting behind you.” I looked at the $8.65 left in my account. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back. “I won’t be submitting.” 3 I walked out of the Fine Arts Association building. The morning sun was so bright it made my eyes water. I had spent six months preparing “Midnight Rain”. To capture the reflection of neon lights in the puddles on a rainy night, I had stood on street corners in the downpour for a week straight. And now, it would remain rolled up, stuffed inside a cardboard tube. When I got home, it was three in the afternoon. The house was empty. I pushed open my bedroom door, and the pungent smell of turpentine hit me like a wall. I froze. My bookshelf had been shoved into the corner. My easel was folded up and packed away. In its place were several massive art supply crates and mountains of high-end pigments. Daphne’s easel stood proudly in front of my window, occupying the best light in the room. Splashes of wet paint dotted the hardwood floor. I took a deep breath. I walked back into the living room, picked up my phone, and called my mother. “What happened to my room?” “Oh, you saw?” my mom’s voice was even, accompanied by the faint sound of jazz playing in a café. “Daphne said her room was too dark, and it was stifling her inspiration. Your room has the best southern exposure.” “So?” “So I had the housekeepers move her supplies in. Your things have been packed up and moved to the basement.” The basement. “Are my paintings down there too?” “Yes,” she said. “They’re just practice pieces anyway. They won’t get ruined down there. You need to learn to share space.” “That is my bedroom.” “Your father and I pay the mortgage on this house. As someone who hasn’t financially contributed, you have the right to use the space, not to dictate it.” She always did this. Using cold, legalistic language to draw lines between us. “Daphne has her Statewide Invitational coming up. She needs the best possible environment,” my mom added. “As her older sister, yielding some physical space is a negligible cost.” “Understood.” I hung up. No screaming, no crying. Because I knew it was useless. I walked down to the basement and pushed open the creaking, rusty door. There were no lights. Only a tiny high window letting in a sliver of gray light. My books, my clothes, my paintings—all piled like trash on top of a plastic tarp. I turned on my phone flashlight and knelt to search through the clutter. At the very bottom, I found “Midnight Rain”. The cap to the protective tube was missing. The edges of the heavy paper had warped from the basement dampness. I carefully pulled it out and unrolled it. Right in the center of the canvas was a distinct, muddy footprint. Size five. Daphne’s shoe size. I stared at the footprint for a long time. Inside me, the fragile vessel that had spent years trying to rationalize their behavior finally shattered with a clean, sharp crack. It wasn’t that they were just objective and rational. It was that favoritism could be as concrete and physical as a muddy shoe print. At seven p.m., they came home. Daphne was clutching a luxury shopping bag, beaming. “Isabel! Look at the dress Mom bought me! I’m going to wear it to the opening next week.” She pulled out the dress, holding it up against herself. White silk. It probably cost thousands. Meanwhile, my three-hundred-dollar deposit had been taken because my “return on investment” was too low. “Do you like it?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “It’s beautiful,” I replied quietly. My dad walked in, taking off his coat. “Isabel, Daphne’s exhibition opens next Friday. You’ll be attending as family. You’ll also need to handle the press and media coordination that day. It’s a great opportunity for you to practice.” “Next Friday,” I said, looking at him. “Yes, is there a problem?” Next Friday was my final thesis defense. If I missed it, I wouldn’t graduate. “I have my graduation defense that day.” “You can request an extension,” my dad said dismissively. “Daphne’s exhibition is her first major milestone. As part of this family, you cannot be absent.” “If I delay my defense, I’ll miss this year’s recruitment cycle.” “Then look for a job next year,” my mom chimed in, walking over with a glass of water. “There’s no rush for you to find work. Focus on managing family affairs first. That is your core competency.” “Core competency.” Being my sister’s assistant had become my core competency. “What if I don’t go?” I asked. My mom stopped in her tracks. She turned to me, her gaze heavy and intimidating. “Isabel, do not try to use rebellion to seek attention. This kind of low-level emotional manipulation doesn’t work in this house.” She set her glass down. “I’ve told you before, we are a rational family. If you do not contribute, do not expect to receive.” I looked at them. I looked at Daphne, hiding behind my mother’s arm, a smug little smirk playing on her lips. “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll go.” 4 Friday morning. I didn’t go to Daphne’s gallery opening. I put on my cleanest white button-down, grabbed my portfolio, and walked out the door. My defense was scheduled for ten a.m. But at nine-thirty, my advisor called. “Isabel, we have a bureaucratic issue. Because of your previous absences, university policy requires a parent or guardian to sign off, confirming that your absences were due to a family emergency, in order for you to defend today.” I froze. My previous absences were because my mother had undergone minor surgery. My dad was on a business trip, and Daphne claimed she couldn’t miss school. So I had been forced to stay at the hospital for two weeks straight as her sole caregiver. “Professor, let me contact them right away.” I hung up and stood in the quiet hallway, dialing my mother’s number. This was the very last time I would ever ask them for help. It rang for a long time before she finally answered. In the background, I could hear chatter and classical music. “What is it? The opening ceremony starts in ten minutes, and the reporters are waiting,” my mom said, her voice sharp with impatience. “Mom, there’s a problem with my graduation defense. I need you or Dad to come sign a form proving my absences were because I was caring for you in the hospital.” “Right now?” “Yes, it has to be signed before ten.” There was a silence on the line. “Isabel, are you deliberately testing my time management skills? Or is this some petty attempt to punish us for not prioritizing your defense?” “It’s not punishment. It’s a strict university rule,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my shaking hands. “It will only take ten minutes. The campus is only three miles from the gallery.” “A three-mile drive plus parking will take at least twenty minutes. It would completely disrupt Daphne’s opening schedule,” my mom said with cool, analytical detachment. “The cost is simply too high.” “If you don’t come, I won’t graduate.” “Then graduate next year,” she refused without a second thought. “An extra year to find yourself isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” “Mom, I missed those classes to take care of you.” “Did I demand that of you? That was your moral duty as a daughter. Don’t use morality to blackmail me.” My dad’s voice floated over from her end. “Who is that?” “Isabel. She wants me to go to her school right now to sign some paper.” “Ridiculous,” my dad’s voice came through clearly. “Daphne is about to give her speech. How can we leave? Tell her to handle it herself. She relies on us far too much.” I held the phone, listening to them back each other up. “Is sister mad at Mom because of me?” Daphne’s soft, innocent voice piped up. “If she really needs you, Mom, you should go. I can face the reporters alone, even though I’m really scared.” “What is there to be scared of? Mom is staying right here,” my mom soothed her, her voice turning incredibly tender. Then, she spoke back into the receiver, cold as ice. “Did you hear that? Daphne needs me. You’re an adult, Isabel. Clean up your own mess.” The line went dead. I stood at the end of the university hallway. The morning sun flooded through the window, but the air felt entirely stagnant, suffocating me. I looked at the “Call Ended” screen. Strangely, all the exhaustion that had weighed on me for years suddenly vanished. The desperate obsession to prove my worth, to claw my way into their hearts, popped like a balloon pricked by a needle. In an instant, there was nothing left. I opened my advisor’s text thread. “Professor, my parents can’t make it.” “Then your defense…” “I’m withdrawing.” I sent the message. I turned away from the defense room and walked out of the building. I took the subway back to the apartment. Not to pack my things, but to purge them. I placed the bank card they used to send my monthly allowance on the coffee table. Beneath it, I slid my house keys. Finally, I took the sketchbook—the one with the galaxy painted three times, its first page still empty—and threw it into the trash can. I stood in the entryway with a single rolling suitcase. I realized then that leaving someone forever doesn’t require a dramatic, screaming fight. It just takes a quiet accumulation of disappointments, until the very last crack is filled. The door clicked shut behind me. I didn’t look back.
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