“At least they remembered you existed,” she whispered.
That was Chloe’s talent—not cruelty, but precision. She never needed to shout to hurt someone. She just needed the right words at the right moment.
I had always been the extra piece in the family puzzle.
Chloe was the golden one. The one my parents showed off. The one who laughed louder, dressed better, charmed faster. The one they celebrated.
I was… useful.
The quiet daughter. The dependable one. The one who worked late, solved problems, and never caused a scene. The one they borrowed money from and conveniently forgot to repay.
Once, years ago, I overheard my father say something that never left me.
“She’s useful,” he had told someone over the phone. “But she’s not special.”
Useful.
That word settled into my bones like something permanent.
I didn’t scratch the ticket at the table. I slipped it into my coat pocket and watched the rest of the night unfold—watched Chloe glow under their attention, watched my mother take photos and post them online before dessert.
“Our favorite girl is cruising into the new year.”
Not “our girls.”
Just one.