Meredith’s house was a shrine to tasteful consumerism. The dining table was set with linen napkins and a centerpiece involving ceramic rabbits that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget used to be. Fresh tulips in expensive vases. Placecards in calligraphy.
My mother was in peak performance mode—her “event” pearls, her best dress, her hair freshly styled. This was her stage, and she played to every seat in the house.
“Meredith just had the deck extended,” Gloria announced during the pre-dinner toast, her voice carrying to every corner of the house. “Twenty thousand dollars for Brazilian hardwood. This house… this is what hard work looks like, people.”
She turned to me across the table. The room went incrementally quieter, sensing something coming.
“And Harper, honey… we’re all rooting for you. We really are. One day, you’ll get there.”
The pity in her voice was thick enough to spread on toast.
Aunt Patrice, who’d had one too many glasses of wine, reached over and patted my arm with damp sympathy. “Gloria told me you were looking for a cheaper apartment, dear. I know a landlord in Gresham who might work with you.”
The room was staring now. All twenty-five people watching to see how I’d react to this public acknowledgment of my failure.
“I’m not looking for a cheaper place, Patrice,” I said, my voice steady and calm.
“Oh, honey,” my mother interjected, her tone suggesting she was speaking to a child in denial about their circumstances. “There’s no shame in asking for help. Really. Your pride will be your downfall.”
I set down my glass carefully. The moment had arrived. Finally.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m not looking for any place. I just bought a house.”
The silence was immediate and complete.
“You… what?” Gloria’s face cycled through several expressions in rapid succession.
“I bought a house. In West Hills. I’d love to have you all over to see it sometime.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of confused questions that I deflected with vague pleasantries. But the seed was planted.
Ten minutes after dessert, Meredith cornered me in the hallway, her expression a mixture of confusion and something harder to name.
“Honestly, Harper. Are you jealous? It’s okay to admit it.”
I looked at her—really looked at her. My sister, who’d spent thirteen years believing she was better than me because our mother had told her so.
“Jealous of what?”
“The house. The life. The thirty-thousand-dollar kitchen.”
“I’m sure you worked very hard for it,” I said, and the tone of my voice made her frown.
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