I was the second daughter, two years younger, unplanned.
My mom never actually said the word mistake, but she didn’t have to. She said things like, “We thought we were done after your sister.” And you were a surprise, but a sweet one.
Which translated into plain English means, “We didn’t want another one, but we’re making do.”
My sister was everything they wanted. Graceful, outgoing, blonde. She could spin in a circle and land applause.
I could take apart a broken fan and rebuild it to run better. But all that got me was a lecture about not touching man things.
She took ballet.
I took apart a toaster once and got grounded for destroying appliances.
They paid for every dance class, every recital, every gold sequined fever dream.
When I asked if I could do a weekend handwork course, leather working I think it was.
We don’t have money for that. Besides, what would you even do with it?
What I did was turn it into a business.
Years later, I run a small but successful company that makes custom handmade homegoods. My husband works with wood. Together, we make decent money.
Nothing fancy, just solid, honest work.
My parents still call it a nice little side thing.
Meanwhile, my sister has two degrees in literature and dance, and about as much job stability as a sneeze in a wind tunnel.
She’s lovely, though, still elegant, still adored, and because the universe has a sense of humor, I still help her out financially from time to time, quietly, without comment, because that’s what I do.
I pay for the things no one thanks me for.
birthdays, travel costs, the occasional broken water heater at my parents house, all quietly absorbed by the bank of well, Jenna’s doing fine.
They treat my money like community property and my opinions like spam mail.
And then came Ava, my daughter, my heart, my karma in the very best form.
She’s like me, but bolder.
Niche interests, sure, but zero apologies. Her hands are always flower dusted or sticky with some sauce she’s inventing.
She once cried because her hollands lacked emotional depth. I have no idea what that means, but I love her for it.
Ava wants to be a chef, not likes to cook.
Wants to be a chef.
She reads restaurant reviews the way other kids scroll Tik Tok. She talks about me on Plus like it’s a philosophy.
