He Threw Me Into a Fountain at My Sister’s Wedding Minutes Later, the Doors Opened and Everything Changed

Behind those perfectly painted doors was a different story. From the time I was old enough to understand comparison, I was losing.

My sister Allison was two years younger and somehow always the star. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” wasn’t something my parents said occasionally. It was the background noise of my entire childhood, playing on a loop I couldn’t turn off.

My father Robert was a prominent corporate attorney who cared about image the way other people care about breathing. My mother Patricia had been a beauty queen who’d traded her crown for a socialite’s life and never stopped performing. Between the two of them, Allison had an audience that never stopped applauding.

I brought home straight A’s. Allison brought home straight A’s plus extracurriculars. I placed second in a regional science competition.

That same weekend, my parents drove across town for Allison’s dance recital and spent the drive back talking about her footwork. During my sixteenth birthday dinner, my father raised his glass. I felt that childish anticipation I could never quite kill, that small, stubborn hope that this time would be different.

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