Lauren didn't come for a long time.

She didn't reply to my messages. She left the old family chat. I heard from Kyle that she'd told her friends Mom had been “manipulated” by me.

Then, one evening in May, I saw a white Mercedes parked across the street from Mom's house. My house.

Lauren was sitting in it, looking at the porch.

She'd been there for twenty minutes before I went out.

I knocked on her window. She jumped. Then she rolled it down.

“I'm not coming in,” she said.

“Okay.”

We looked at each other.

“Do you know what it's like,” Lauren said suddenly, “to sell million-dollar houses all day, and know your mother likes your sister more? Not because she's richer. Not because she's more successful. Just because she shows up.”

Her voice broke.

“I was so jealous of you, Claire. For years. You with your library and your sad little apartment, and Mom's face lighting up every time you walked in. So I made fun of you. Because it was easier than driving fifteen minutes on a Sunday.”

She wiped her eyes angrily.

“Don't say anything nice,” she said. “I'll just cry more.”

So I didn't say anything nice.

I just opened her car door and held out my hand.