At my twin sister’s graduation, my father lifted his camera for her name—then the dean said, “Please welcome Francis Townsend, our valedictorian and Whitfield Scholar,” and the man who once told me, “You’re smart, but you’re not special. There’s no return on investment with you,” went completely still as I walked toward the podium he never imagined I’d stand on.

“What are you—? How are you—?”

She couldn’t form a complete sentence.

I closed my book calmly.

“Hi, Victoria.”

Part 4
“You go here? Since when? Mom and Dad didn’t say—”

“Mom and Dad don’t know.”

She blinked.

“What do you mean they don’t know?”

“Exactly what I said. They don’t know I’m here.”

Victoria set her coffee down, still staring at me like I’d materialized from thin air.

“But how? They’re not paying for—I mean, how did you—?”

“I paid for Eastbrook. I transferred. Scholarship.”

The word hung between us.

Victoria’s expression shifted. Confusion, disbelief, and something else. Something that looked almost like shame.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

I looked at her, my twin sister, the one who’d gotten everything I’d been denied, the one who’d never asked, not once in four years, how I was surviving.

“Did you ever ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

I gathered my books.

“I need to get to class.”

“Francis, wait.”

She grabbed my arm.

“Do you hate us? The family?”

I looked at her hand on my sleeve, then at her face.

“No,” I said quietly. “You can’t hate people you’ve stopped caring about.”