That was how most things worked in our life, as I was included just enough so that outsiders could not say I was being excluded. I had a seat at the dinner table, but it was always the chair closest to the kitchen that everyone bumped into while carrying plates. My bedroom doubled as a storage unit for Rick’s tools and seasonal decorations.
I had parents, but one was a ghost story and the other treated raising me like a debt she truly resented paying. By my senior year, I had learned how to be entirely low-maintenance. I kept my grades high, worked a part-time job at the local library, and did all of my own laundry.
I made my own medical appointments and rarely asked anyone for a ride. I never complained when my dinner portions were smaller than Chloe’s or when I was left behind. I think my potential to succeed frightened my mother more than my failure ever would have.
If I became successful, it meant I might eventually leave, and she was not ready to lose her favorite target. So, when the sharp pain hit me again in the middle of class, I did not raise my hand to ask for help. I put my head down on the cool surface of my desk and pretended to study the equations.