I knew because I had signed his retirement paperwork myself.
Courtney blinked, thrown off for half a second. “Then get the new manager.”
“I already called him,” Megan said.
My mother gave a satisfied little nod. “Good.”
Then she looked at me with the same expression she had worn the night I moved out at nineteen with two garbage bags and a cracked phone.
“Claire,” she said, using my name like a warning. “Save yourself further embarrassment. Leave before security has to escort you out.”
My name is Claire Bennett.
For most of my life, that name meant second place.
Courtney was the bright one, the pretty one, the one my mother called “our future.” She had piano lessons, cheer camp, private tutors, white prom dresses, and birthday parties with rented tents in the backyard.
I had hand-me-downs, a bus pass, and the privilege of being told not to make things difficult.
When Dad was alive, it had been different. Not perfect, but different. He noticed when I stayed up late studying. He taught me how to change a tire. He told me I had a stubborn mind and that it would save me one day.
After he died when I was fifteen, my mother rewrote the family in Courtney’s image.
Courtney grieved loudly. I grieved quietly. Courtney needed therapy, shopping trips, and a new car because “life was short.” I needed to be strong. Courtney needed attention. I needed to understand. Courtney needed opportunities. I needed to stop being jealous.
By the time I graduated high school, I had learned the rules.
Courtney’s mistakes were wounds.
Mine were character flaws.
Courtney’s dreams were investments.
Mine were unrealistic.
Courtney’s cruelty was stress.
My pain was attitude.
