On Christmas morning, I watched my younger sister cry tears of joy as she unwrapped the key to her dream house. My parents clapped, and my mother whispered, “You’ll understand someday.” But I already understood, because I was the one who paid off the house they were supposed to lose.
My name is Clare Matthews, and I’ve spent thirty-two years being the invisible daughter in a family that only sees what it wants to see. The morning had started like every other Christmas in the Matthews household: the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting from the kitchen, the sound of Bing Crosby crooning from the old stereo system my father refused to replace, and the sight of our twelve-foot Douglas fir drowning in ornaments that each held a story. I’d arrived the night before, pulling into the driveway of my childhood home in Burlington, Vermont, with a trunk full of carefully wrapped presents and a heart full of hope that this year would be different.
I should have known better.
Lily was already there, of course. My younger sister had been staying with our parents for the past three months—”between opportunities,” as she liked to call it. The latest opportunity that hadn’t panned out was a poetry residency in Portland that had promised a stipend but delivered only exposure. Now she was back in her old room, the walls still painted the lavender she’d chosen at sixteen, working on what she called her “breakthrough collection” while our parents tiptoed around her artistic temperament.
“Clare,” Mom had exclaimed when I walked through the door, flour dusting her cheeks. “You made it! We weren’t sure with the weather and your busy schedule.” The subtext was clear: Lily’s schedule was never too busy. Lily always made it home. Clare was the one who sometimes chose work over family, responsibility over connection—the successful one who didn’t need them as much.
“Of course I made it,” I’d said, setting down my bags and accepting her quick hug. “It’s Christmas.”
Dad had emerged from his study then, wearing the same flannel shirt he’d owned since I was in high school. “There’s my girl,” he’d said, but his eyes were already drifting past me to the window. “Did you see Lily’s new poem in the Burlington Review? They featured her on the cover.” I had seen it. I’d also seen that the Burlington Review was a free literary circular that featured anyone who submitted. But I smiled and nodded because that’s what I did. That’s what I’d always done.
The evening had progressed with the usual rhythm. Lily regaled us with stories from her poetry circles, each tale more dramatic than the last. Mom fussed over her, making sure she ate enough, worried about the circles under her eyes. Dad listened with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with questions that showed he’d been reading up on contemporary poetry to better understand his daughter’s world. When they asked about my work, I kept it simple. “Things are good. Busy season with year-end tax planning.” They nodded politely, the way people do when they’re being courteous about something that doesn’t interest them. No follow-up questions, no requests for stories, just a polite acknowledgement before steering the conversation back to Lily’s upcoming reading at the local bookstore.
I excused myself early, claiming travel fatigue, and retreated to my childhood bedroom. Unlike Lily’s preserved sanctuary, mine had been converted into a guest room years ago. Neutral beige walls, a generic landscape print, a bed that wasn’t quite as comfortable as the one I remembered. I sat on the edge of that bed, staring at the wrapped package in my suitcase—the one that contained the deed to this very house.
Three months earlier, I’d come home for Dad’s seventieth birthday. While looking for photo albums in the attic to create a memory book, I’d found something that stopped me cold: a manila folder stuffed behind old tax returns, filled with foreclosure notices. Final warnings, desperate correspondence with the bank. The house my parents had lived in for thirty-five years, the one they’d raised us in, was three months away from being seized.
The construction business Dad had run for decades had been struggling for years. Apparently too proud to adapt to new methods, too stubborn to admit defeat, he’d been hemorrhaging money. Mom’s medical bills from a series of “minor procedures” she’d downplayed had delivered the final blow. They were $212,000 behind on their mortgage with no way to catch up. I’d sat in that dusty attic, surrounded by Christmas decorations and old report cards, feeling the world tilt. Not because of the money—I had money. My career as a tax policy adviser at one of the most prestigious economic think tanks in the country had been lucrative. I’d lived well below my means, invested wisely, and built a substantial portfolio. The money wasn’t the issue.
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