Part 2Built on a Fifteen Year Lie

"Molly, take Brittany across town tomorrow to pick up that vintage camera lens she ordered."

Dinner was over. My mother was rinsing dishes, tossing the command over her shoulder with the same casual authority she used when telling me to take out the trash.

I was wiping down the dining table, wringing out the wet rag. "I have things to take care of tomorrow."

"What could you possibly have that's more important than helping your sister? She's barely home these days. Can't you just accommodate her for once?"

"Accommodate."

I had heard that word so many times it felt carved into my ear canals. Accommodate her seat, accommodate her hand-me-downs, accommodate her temper, accommodate the fact that our mother’s arms were only wide enough for one of us.

And now, accommodate her errands.

"She doesn't know the west side," my mother added, annoyed that I hadn't answered instantly. "You have GPS."

Brittany had three different map apps on her phone.

"Okay."

The word slipped out before I could stop it—a fifteen-year muscle memory.

The next morning, I drove her out toward the arts district.

She sat in the passenger seat with her ankles crossed on the dashboard, scrolling through TikTok at full volume, the tinny audio grating against my temples.

"Molly, look at this. Do you think this edit will blow up?"

She shoved the screen an inch from my nose. It was a montage of her birthday dinner from the night before, set to an upbeat pop track. The caption read: "Surrounded by the best family a girl could ask for."

In every frame, people were smiling. In none of them was I visible.

"Looks nice," I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

"You always say the exact same thing." Brittany pulled her phone back, rolling her eyes. "'Looks nice.' 'Sounds good.' 'Okay.' Don't you have a single original thought in your head?"

I watched the traffic light turn red and pressed the brake.

People with original thoughts get abandoned. Did she forget?

At the camera boutique, Brittany spent forty minutes testing lenses before settling on a mirrorless kit that came out to twenty-six hundred dollars.

When the clerk rang it up, she tapped her leather wallet, then turned to me with an apologetic pucker of her lips.

"Hey, Mol... my credit limit is maxed until Monday. Can you spot me fifteen hundred? I'll Venmo you next week."

Fifteen hundred. My total checking account held barely two thousand.

"Brittany, I don't really have that much to spare right now..."

"How much do you have? Just cover the fifteen hundred on your debit, and I'll put the rest on my card. Come on, the guy's waiting."

The clerk stood behind the counter, wearing that practiced, noncommittal retail smile.

I took out my card and tapped the terminal.

Brittany covered the remainder, scooped up the branded shopping bag, and practically floated out the door. "I'll pay you back, promise!"

She was already typing out an Instagram story: "Self-love is an investment."

When we got back, I slipped into the kitchen for a glass of water. Aunt Brenda was still there, sitting at the breakfast bar with my mother.

As I approached the doorway, Brenda’s voice drifted out. "Susan, Molly looks drawn. Is her job running her ragged?"

My mother peeled a clementine, completely unbothered. "She's always been scrawny. Barely eats."

"You should check in on her more often. Try to keep things balanced between the girls."

My mother scoffed—that quiet, patronizing chuckle she used when she thought someone was being painfully naive.

"Molly isn't like Brittany. Brittany's affectionate, she needs reassurance or she falls apart. Molly? Look at her. She keeps to herself, doesn't ask for a thing. She's low-maintenance."

"Low-maintenance."

Because I didn't cry, I didn't need comforting. Because I didn't throw tantrums, I didn't need feeding.

She had relied on that twisted logic for fifteen years without once questioning its cruelty.

Brenda opened her mouth to push back, but my mother abruptly changed the subject. "By the way, where did you get those collagen supplements? Brittany's skin has been looking so dull lately, I want to order her a bottle."

I carried my water glass back to my room, shut the door, and turned the lock.

Opening my phone's calendar, I checked the itinerary again.

"October 5th. 2:15 PM flight."

Connecting in Helsinki, arriving in Oslo. In less than forty-eight hours, I would be standing in a land heading toward polar night, breathing air that had never touched this house.

A bank notification pinged: balance remaining, $412.

Brittany hadn't sent the Venmo request. I checked our message thread. The last text from her was from three months ago, asking me to cover her share of the family phone plan.

She hadn't paid that back either.

Dinner that evening was another noisy gathering. My uncle had brought a bushel of steamed blue crabs from the coast.

When my mother began portioning them onto paper plates, she deliberately bypassed mine.

"Molly doesn't eat shellfish," she announced to the table.

I loved shellfish. I had loved it since I was a little girl.

The person who broke out in hives after eating crab was Brittany.

Somewhere along the way, my mother had merged my preferences with Brittany’s allergies. Or maybe she hadn't; maybe she just needed an excuse so there would be enough crab legs to go around without buying another bushel.

"Mom," I said quietly. "I eat crab."

My mother paused, staring at me as if I had spoken in tongues. "Since when? Didn't you throw up all night the first time you tried it?"

"That was Brittany," I said.

The table went quiet for two beats. Brittany looked up from her plate, her expression fleetingly defensive.

My mother forced an awkward laugh. "Well... take one of mine, then. I'll just eat less."

She nudged a crab toward me with a dramatic sigh, making sure everyone saw her sacrifice.

I didn't reach for it. "Never mind. I'm not hungry."

I stood up and walked back toward the hallway.

Behind me, my mother's exasperated mutter carried clearly over the television: "Look at that attitude. You offer it to her and she pouts. I honestly don't know what her problem is."

Brittany’s airy laugh followed right after. "That's just how she is, Mom. Leave her alone."

"Leave her alone."

Don't worry. After tomorrow, you won't ever have to bother again.