Part 1I Am Not Your Down Payment

When my phone suddenly vibrated against my palm, I was staring at my own exhausted reflection in the dark glass of the subway window.

I was running on ten consecutive nights of overtime. I swiped the screen, hoping for some mindless scrolling to take the edge off, but instead, I was ambushed by my mother’s latest TikTok update.

Two videos, posted side-by-side. They hit me like twin slaps to the face.

My older sister’s video featured her latest heavily-filtered selfie. The caption read: Whoever gets my gorgeous girl is blessed! If this gets enough views, Mama’s buying her a condo! In the video, her smile was exactly as sweet as I remembered it being on the day she stole my favorite butterfly hair clip.

Then, there was my video. For mine, my mother had dug up a twenty-year-old photograph. A little girl with pigtails, sitting on the floor, red-faced and sobbing. The stolen butterfly clip was clearly visible, pinned into the hair of the older girl standing next to her.

It wasn't until my fingertips went numb from the drafty train car that I finally processed the text floating beneath my childhood tears: Whoever gets my youngest, beware. If this gets enough views, I’m pawning her off to that divorced guy with the real estate money.

The automated voice announcing the next stop jolted me awake. The harsh glare of the phone screen illuminated my pale face.

So, the physical ache in my chest wasn't just my imagination.

* * *

I looked down. There was an iMessage from my sister, Phoebe.

Did you see Mom’s TikTok?

Don’t take it to heart, okay? You know how she is, she’s just making content.

Before I could even formulate a response, a voice note popped up.

Against the screeching metal of the subway, the audio played. Phoebe’s giggles and my mother’s voice rang out, louder and clearer than the blood rushing in my ears.

"Phoebe, ignore her," my mother was saying in the background. "She’s always been overly sensitive. Let her see it. What’s she gonna do about it anyway?"

Another voice note dropped in.

"Oh my god, Mom, stop recording!" Phoebe was laughing. "Tell the internet how you really feel about my little sister."

"I’m just telling the truth! She holds grudges. She’s been like that since she was a baby. You give her an inch, she takes a mile..."

The audio cut off.

I gripped my phone. Standing in the middle of a packed commuter train, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, I had no idea what my face was doing.

The screen dimmed, then went black. I still didn't know what to type.

Then, the phone started ringing.

It was Mom.

The second I hit accept, the barrage started.

"Nina. Your sister says you're leaving her on read. What is your problem?"

"She goes out of her way to be nice and comfort you, and you throw a tantrum? Who do you think you are?"

"You're just gonna play dead? Is that it?"

Her voice was piercing. My phone speaker was cheap, and the tinny, aggressive sound bled out into the quiet car. A few people looked over.

I shrank back against the doors, dropping my voice to a whisper. "I wasn't ignoring her. I was just about to—"

"Save it. I don't have the patience." She cut me off. "Next week. You have a date. The guy Mrs. Higgins set up, the one whose family sold all that land to the commercial developers. You are going."

"He just inherited a massive payout, and he's an only child."

"Yeah, his first wife filed a restraining order, but he likes that you're young and know how to keep a house. He’s willing to write a fifty-thousand-dollar check to the family as a 'gift' if you marry him."

My nails bit into the meat of my palm.

"Mom. I'm a human being. I'm not livestock."

Dead silence on the line for two beats. Then, a sharp, ugly laugh.

"Livestock?" Her voice spiked an octave. "You think you're so much better than livestock?"

"You bring home pennies every month. If I don't arrange this for you, you're going to die alone in a roach motel!"

"I make four thousand a month," I said, my voice shaking.

"Four thousand?" She scoffed. "Your sister makes a grand on a single sponsored post. She pulls in ten grand a month easy, not even counting her live-stream donations."

"You think your four grand makes you a queen?"

"Listen to me. If you ghost this guy next week, I will personally drive to your office, sit in the lobby, and let your entire company know what a selfish, ungrateful bitch of a daughter you are!"

She hung up. The train rolled into my stop.

I stepped out into the damp subterranean air. Opening my phone, I saw a new post on Phoebe's Instagram.

I swiped through the carousel of photos.

Her nails were freshly done. I knew the salon; I'd seen the prices in the window. A hundred and fifty bucks, minimum.

Her bag was a designer knockoff, but a high-end one. A coworker had bought the same one—seven hundred dollars.

I scrolled down to the comments. It was a chorus of adoration.

Gorgeous as always, P!

Your mom is so supportive, so jealous!

Eldest daughter energy! You can tell you were raised with so much love.

Phoebe had replied with a blushing emoji.

I lowered the phone to my thigh and stared up at the peeling paint on the station ceiling.

In my pinned text thread with my mother, the last time she had reached out to me voluntarily was three months ago. The text read: Your sister just posted. Go like it and leave a comment.

Scrolling up further: Demands to share Phoebe’s videos. Demands to send Phoebe five hundred dollars from my paycheck because she "needed an upgrade for her vlogging camera."

I had sent the money.

I had liked the posts.

I had left the comments.

I opened my own camera roll and swiped.

The last time someone took a picture of me was three years ago, at a mandatory company retreat. A group shot taken by a coworker. I was in the back row, half my face obscured by someone else's shoulder.

The last time someone complimented me was last month, when I covered a double shift for a coworker. She had said, Nina, you're a lifesaver.

The last time someone told me they loved me...

I couldn't remember.

Just like I couldn't remember exactly when I had become the ghost haunting my own family.