My name is Audrey Marshall. I’m 26. And last weekend, I learned exactly where I stand in my own family.
It happened in my sister’s kitchen, under the warm glow of her new pendant lights, while a Frank Sinatra playlist drifted through the living room like it belonged there. Someone had stuck a tiny American-flag magnet on her stainless-steel fridge, pinning up a glossy “WELCOME HOME!” sign and a folded HOA flyer like it was decor. I stood with a tray of empty cups pressed to my ribs, sweat cooling between my shoulder blades, and asked the simplest question in the world.
“What time is family lunch tomorrow?”
My sister—Mallory—tilted her head like she was listening for applause. “You think you’re invited?” she snapped. “Audrey, you’re just the help.
Only real family is.”
The room burst into laughter. I swallowed my anger so hard it tasted metallic, smiled like I’d been practicing for years, and said calmly, “Interesting. This house won’t belong to you for much longer.”
The laughter died instantly.
Even the ice in someone’s glass seemed to pause. And that was the moment I realized I wasn’t standing in my sister’s home. I was standing in her stage.
A couple of days before the party, the first warning sign showed up on my phone. The invitation wasn’t from Mallory. It wasn’t even a group text where my name was included out of politeness.
It was a screenshot from my mom, Joyce Marshall, forwarded from a thread I wasn’t in. Address. Time.
One of those emoji confetti bursts. That was it. No “Hey, Audrey, I’d love you there.” No “Can you make it?” No personal note—just an image of words that didn’t belong to me.
It looked like a flyer you’d print at Staples. I stared at it longer than I should’ve, because it wasn’t the party that hurt. It was the ease of being left out—like my absence didn’t even need explaining.
Mallory has always needed everything to look perfect as long as someone else is doing the work. When we were kids, she’d show up late to birthdays while I set the table, stacked paper plates, and scraped frosting off forks into the trash. Mom would sigh and say, “You know how your sister is,” like the sentence was a password that unlocked forgiveness.
We grew up, but the assignments never changed. By Thursday, Mom was already laying it down. “Can you come a little early to help your sister?” she asked over the phone, voice bright in that way that meant she’d already decided.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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