Right on cue, my younger sister Lily wandered in, eyes glued to her phone, dressed in a brand-new outfit our parents definitely couldn’t afford.
“It’s not just a movie,” she sighed dismissively. “It’s a social thing. Stop overreacting about your little interview. You can just reschedule.”
Reschedule. As if a firm like Whitmore & Reed operated on casual convenience. A cold weight settled in my chest. I was paying for the internet she was using, contributing to the family’s insurance, and covering countless bills—yet here I was, treated as insignificant.
I reached for the car keys on the counter.
Before I could grab them, my father’s hand slammed down over mine, pinning it in place.
“Give her the keys, Leonard,” my mother, Diane Carter, called as she entered, carrying laundry. Her tone carried no sympathy. It never did. “Lily has had a stressful week. Emily can walk to the bus stop across the highway. It’ll build character.”
The words drained the air from my lungs. Build character.
My father snatched the keys and tossed them to Lily, who caught them with a smug smile.
“If you’re such a talented designer,” he sneered, pushing me toward the door, “figure it out yourself. Her social life matters more than your little job.”
Moments later, I stood outside as the sky darkened. Within minutes, rain poured down in freezing sheets. I clutched my portfolio tightly as the SUV pulled out of the driveway. Lily didn’t slow down as she sped off, splashing a wave of dirty water that soaked me completely.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. I simply stood there, watching the taillights disappear. And in that moment, something inside me quietly broke.
