My dad slid my college letter back across the table, paid for my twin sister on the spot, and told me, “she’s worth the investment. You’re not

My mother lowered her eyes.

My father paused just long enough to make me hope.

“You’re smart,” he said. “Nobody denies that. But you don’t stand out the same way. We don’t see the same long-term return.”

Return.

That word cut deepest because it wasn’t careless. It was honest.

Amber was an investment.

I was an expense.

“So I just figure it out myself?” I asked.

He gave a small shrug, the kind people give when they have already decided the pain belongs to someone else.

“You’ve always been independent.”

Amber’s phone buzzed. She smiled down at it, already sending the news into the world. My mother began saying something about finances and timing, but I barely heard her. The living room blurred. The family photos on the mantel seemed suddenly staged by strangers: Amber and me in matching dresses at six, Amber standing in front while I stood slightly behind; Amber blowing out candles while I clapped beside her; Amber beside her new car at sixteen, red ribbon across the hood, while I held the old tablet Dad had given me because “it still worked fine.”