Part 3Built on a Fifteen Year Lie

"Molly, come into the den for a second."

On the morning of October fourth, my father used my full name.

He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, several bank printouts spread out in front of him under the green desk lamp.

"Why was your transfer only four hundred dollars this month?"

Last month, I had sent a thousand. This month, after being forced to spot Brittany's camera and clearing my monthly auto insurance, four hundred was literally all I had left.

"My expenses were higher this month."

"What could you possibly be spending that much on?" Raymond's brow furrowed, his knuckles rapping the wood. "You live alone in a company-subsidized studio. They pay half your rent, don't they?"

They paid half. The other half was twelve hundred dollars. Add groceries, utilities, and gas, and my junior salary barely covered the margins.

I had never shown him those receipts. Because in this house, my earnings were treated as communal property, while Brittany’s paycheck belonged entirely to her.

"I'll make it up next month," I lied smoothly.

"Your sister is enrolling in an advanced portrait photography workshop next week. It's not cheap. Your mother thinks you should help pitch in."

"Pitch in."

Every time that phrase was uttered, my savings thinned out like melted ice.

"How much?"

"Eight hundred. Brittany's covering the rest."

Eight hundred. A twenty-six-hundred-dollar camera, plus an eight-hundred-dollar course. That was over two thousand dollars pulled straight from my pocket in forty-eight hours.

Brittany made significantly more than I did at her marketing firm. My parents knew that.

"Dad, Brittany earns more than me."

Raymond took off his reading glasses and looked up. It was that familiar, heavy look—the disappointed glare reserved for when I failed to be useful.

"Your sister has a lifestyle to maintain. What do you spend money on? Quibbling over money with your own sister... aren't you ashamed?"

I had nothing to spend money on because I didn't buy new clothes, I didn't get my hair styled, I didn't go to brunches, and I didn't take vacations.

Every dollar I starved myself of ended up funding someone else's comfort.

"Okay," I said, turning toward the door.

Before I reached the hallway, I heard him dialing his phone. "Brittany? Your sister said she'd cover the workshop fee. Just have her transfer it over."

Through the receiver, my sister’s cheerful voice leaked out: "See? I told you Molly's the easiest person in the world to deal with."

"Easiest to deal with."

Code for: "easiest to step on."

That afternoon, I walked to the pharmacy to pick up travel-sized toiletries.

Passing the snack aisle, my hand hovered over the shelves. Dried fruit that Brittany liked, salt-and-vinegar chips that Dad... no.

I stood in the fluorescent aisle for a long moment, then reached for a single bag of roasted seaweed crisps. I hesitated, then dropped it into my basket.

It was the first time in twenty-three years I had bought something purely because I wanted the taste of it.

When I got home, my mother was in the living room, flipping through glossy prints fresh from Brittany’s new camera.

"Molly, look at these," she beamed, waving me over. "Look at the lighting."

They were shots of the local botanical garden in early autumn. The framing was undeniably good.

"I'm framing this one for above the mantle," Mom said, tapping an image of an oak tree washed in golden hour light.

Above the mantle hung the family portrait taken five years ago. I was standing on the far right, half my shoulder and arm awkwardly cropped out by the wooden frame. Back then, my mother claimed the framer had made a measurement mistake.

I had believed her for five years.

Now I knew the truth: there had simply never been enough room on that wall for me.

"It looks great," I said.

My mother flipped to the next photo and stopped. It was an accidental shot Brittany had snapped of me from behind, standing over the kitchen cutting board with my shoulders hunched.

"Delete that one," my mother muttered, sliding it under the pile. "It ruins the aesthetic."

The aesthetic wasn't ruined.

I was just in it.

After dinner, Brittany sat with Mom on the couch, reviewing the photography syllabus.

"The instructor is an associate contributor for National Geographic, Mom. Look at his portfolio, it's unreal."

"Take it, sweetheart. Don't worry about the cost. We'll handle it."

When Mom said "we'll handle it", she didn't look at me. But we both knew whose account the money was supposed to come from.

My father was out on the back porch smoking, watching stock analysis videos on his tablet. The living room belonged entirely to Brittany and Susan, their heads bent together, an impenetrable unit.

I sat at the cleared dining table and quietly ate my seaweed crisps.

They tasted salty.

My eyes stung with the same salt.

By ten that night, the house went dark.

I locked my bedroom door and pulled my dark grey carry-on from beneath the bed.

Passport. Social Security card. Birth certificate. Two changes of warm clothes. Laptop. External hard drive holding every portfolio project I had ever touched.

My passport had been renewed three months ago when the international vacancy first posted. At the time, I had hesitated.

Now, my resolve was set like cured concrete.

The zipper made a soft, metallic scrape as I pulled it closed. I held my breath, listening.

Next door, a strip of yellow light showed under Brittany’s door. She was probably editing her photos.

My phone buzzed with an incoming text from her:

"Hey Mol, when can you send that workshop money? Deposit is due by the 10th."

The tenth.

By the tenth, I would be halfway across the globe.

I typed four words: "We'll talk later."

She replied instantly with a thumbs-up emoji.

Everything was fine in her world. Everything was always fine.

I lay down on the narrow mattress, staring at the ceiling plaster.

My flight was at two-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, the house would be empty: Brittany had brunch plans with college friends, and my parents were driving up to my uncle’s cabin to drop off fall preserves.

This was the last night I would ever sleep in this room.

Fifteen years ago, an eight-year-old girl had cried herself to sleep on this exact mattress. That night, twelve-year-old Brittany had cracked the door open and left a single butterscotch candy on my pillow.

When I woke up and found it, I thought it was mercy.

Looking back now, maybe that was the only time in her life Brittany had ever felt a flicker of guilt.

Too bad the expiration date on that candy had run out fifteen years ago.