I let my sister use my house for her wedding reception. By the end of the night, she had already told everyone she was moving in. When the moving

Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you calling?”

“The police.”

Christine laughed, but it sounded strained.

“You would call the police on your own sister?”

“You showed up with a moving truck after being told no. Yes.”

Her face shifted. The performance cracked.

“After everything I’ve been through?”

I had heard that line my entire life—after missed rent, broken promises, borrowed money that somehow turned into salon visits and weekend trips. Christine moved through the world as if hardship were a coupon entitling her to other people’s sacrifices.

I said, “This is over.”

Michael dragged a hand over his face. He looked tired in a way I hadn’t seen at the wedding.

Embarrassed, too. “Christine,” he said quietly, “maybe we should go.”

She spun toward him. “Go where?”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped between them and my front door.

“No one is coming inside.”

She stepped forward, chin lifted. “Mom would be ashamed of you.”

That one landed. For a moment, my throat tightened so much I couldn’t speak.

Our mother had spent years smoothing over Christine’s mistakes with grocery money, excuses, and endless second chances.

When she got sick, I became the one driving her to appointments, organizing medications, sleeping overnight in hospital chairs. Christine came when it suited her and cried loudly enough for others to praise her devotion. Even in grief, she knew how to perform.