There were four of us in that house, and our parents never once pretended the scales were even.
Dinner was always whatever Seraphina liked, and at school I lived under standing orders to keep her safe.
They made no effort at all to hide which daughter came first.
Their favoritism grew me a coat of spines, and I kept my distance from her.
Seraphina used to climb into my bed in the middle of the night with her eyes red, like the whole world had wronged her.
She whispered the same thing every time. "Vivienne, I'm sorry. Don't be angry at Mom and Dad. It's only because I'm sick. They love you, I promise they do."
Seraphina cried the way girls cry in movies, soft and heartbreaking and impossible to be angry at.
What did she have to cry about?
I was the one getting the short end of every
