1: 1
At the end of the month, once my salary landed, the first thing I did was go to the bank, withdraw the cash, and head home.
I was going to hand it over to my parents, the way I always did.
But the door code had been changed, and the people living inside weren't my family anymore.
The elderly neighbor heard the noise and came out. "Joy Shepherd, sweetheart, your mom and dad and your sister moved out two weeks ago."
"Said they'd all gone to a new house, that the mortgage was finally paid off, four thousand a month — and nobody even told you?"
I froze, and the tears came at once.
Three years of work, and every single month I transferred four thousand to my parents, right on time.
They said they were saving it for me, that they'd give it back one day.
Turns out it all went straight into paying off the mortgage.
And now, just because last month I hadn't managed to transfer it in time,
they'd moved out without a single word, to punish me.
"Do you want me to ask them for you?"
The old woman held onto my arm, her face full of pity.
I just wiped my eyes, calm now.
"There's no need."
Forty-eight thousand and three dollars couldn't buy me a family that loved me.
From here on, I'd just be good to myself.
...
She looked at me, and the ache in her eyes deepened.
"The Shepherds, honestly, it's a sin. They favored that younger one from the day she was born."
The other neighbors heard the commotion and drifted out to watch.
"It's true. The year Joy came first in the whole city on her SATs, you didn't see them throw any party for her."
"The younger one barely scraped past the cutoff for a four-year college, and they wanted to hang banners all over the neighborhood."
Every word landed like a blade, peeling back the old scars.
For as long as I can remember, my parents loved my sister more.
They'd slip her twice the allowance they gave me,
they'd make a point of taking her traveling so she could see the world,
they even set up a whole social media account, and every month they wrote my sister a letter.
Recording how she was growing up.
Later the account took off, and plenty of my classmates came across it.
They'd chatter at me about how much they envied me.
"Your parents are so wonderful. The letters are so tender, so warm, it takes a home like that to raise a child who's really loved!"
"Right? Watching your sister through their lens, I could almost fall for her myself."
The more they envied me,
the worse I felt inside.
I stayed quiet and watched them.
Eventually someone noticed something was off.
"Joy, how come your parents only ever post your sister, and never you?"
"Yeah, the followers all think they've only got one daughter. Why don't you get in front of the camera?"
Another classmate gave them a nudge.
"Don't say things like that. Joy's quiet. Maybe she just doesn't want her parents recording her."
I opened my mouth to explain.
And found I couldn't get out a single word.
Who doesn't want to be recorded by their own mom and dad, treated like something precious?
But for more than ten years, I'd been invisible in that house.
So when they took their photos and wrote their letters,
by some unspoken agreement, they never asked me. They just skipped me.
No one ever asked whether I wanted it.
No one cared how I felt.
After I graduated, I found myself a decent job, on my own.
Eight thousand a month, plus commission when my numbers were good.
When my parents heard, the cold look on their faces finally loosened.
That was the first time in my life I heard,
"Our Joy, not bad at all." A word of praise.
Even next to the way they gushed over my sister, endless praise for her,
that simple "not bad" was clearly grudging and perfunctory.
And still it stayed sweet in my chest for the longest time.
Only now do I understand.
That bit of praise they squeezed out
was only ever to keep me handing over four thousand dollars, month after month, for three years.
Now, coming back to myself,
I bowed deeply to the neighbors.
"Take care of yourselves. I won't be coming back here again."
Then I turned and walked away.
My manager had told me last month there was a promotion opening, and he'd put my name forward.
The only catch was a three-year posting out to the western branch, in the Denver region.
At the time I thought of my parents, and turned it down against my own wishes.
Now, I was going to take that chance back.
The Denver branch was two thousand miles from Harrington.
Far enough to wear away every last bit of love and hate I had left here.
