When I asked why no one had told me, she sighed as though I were the difficult one.
“We didn’t want to stress you while you were working,” she said. “Family comes first.”
The phrase landed like a commandment.
Family comes first.
Translated, in our household, that had always meant Marissa comes first.
Marissa, who had learned early that urgency bent the world.
Marissa, who cried in crescendos and framed her chaos as vulnerability.
Marissa, who believed that need justified entitlement.
When I asked to speak to my sister, she sounded almost offended that I was upset.
“You have five bedrooms,” she said flatly. “It’s not like I’m burning it down.”
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