The living room always belonged to Summer.
She stood in the center of it that evening, honey-colored hair tied with a silk ribbon, the hem of her dress falling just above her knees. Their mother fussed around her with pins and pleats, smoothing fabric as though preparing a doll for display. Their father sat back in his leather chair, pride glowing in his eyes—the kind of pride Kimberly had never once seen directed at her.
Kimberly lingered in the doorway, her fingers curled tight against the wooden frame.
"Doesn't she look like a movie star?" their mother gushed, clapping her hands. "Our Summer, the beautiful one." Her father nodded, gaze never leaving Summer. "A man could build kingdoms for a face like that."
The words were familiar, spoken so often they felt carved into the very walls of the house. Summer, the beautiful one. Kimberly, the other one. And the insult always cut deeper because Kimberly was older. She had been there first—seventeen now, two years ahead of Summer—but it had never mattered. Summer was adored. Kimberly was tolerated.
She glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror: darker hair, fuller lips, a body too curvy for dresses made for slimmer girls. People called her "striking" when they were trying not to say something else. Never golden. Never beautiful.
Swallowing the bitterness, she forced a smile. "I baked muffins."
On the counter, a plate cooled—the effort of her morning, measured and stirred with careful hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time she would earn a kind word.
Summer crossed the room, plucked one, and bit into it. She chewed, wrinkled her nose, and dropped it back onto the plate.
"Too much flour," she said simply. "You should leave the cooking to Mom." Their mother laughed instead of scolding. "Don't be unkind, darling. Kimberly tries." The word sliced deeper than any insult. Kimberly lowered her eyes so they wouldn't see the heat rising in them.
---
That afternoon, salvation arrived in the form of her best friend, Lila. Kimberly had waited all week for her—they'd planned a trip into town, maybe a movie, a chance to breathe outside the suffocating walls of home. Clutching her purse, Kimberly felt lighter for the first time all day.
Then Summer appeared at the top of the stairs. Even in plain jeans and a white blouse, she was effortless.
"Lila!" Summer's smile stretched wide, as though greeting an old companion. "I didn't know you were coming." Lila blushed, shifting. "Yeah, Kimberly and I were just—"
"Perfect timing," Summer interrupted, gliding down the steps. "We were about to make tea. Come sit with me." By the time they left the house, Kimberly was trailing behind, her plans drowned beneath Summer's laughter. Lila didn't look back. She never did. Kimberly walked three paces behind, throat burning. It always happened like this. Summer never asked. She only took.
---
That night, their father returned from work with a small velvet box. He kissed Summer's forehead and placed it in her hands. Inside lay a silver bracelet that shimmered like liquid light.
"For my golden girl," he said.
Summer beamed, sliding it onto her wrist.
Kimberly waited. No second box appeared. No glance, no word. Nothing. She stood in the corner, fists clenched until her nails left half-moons in her palms. Later, in their shared bedroom, Summer sprawled across the bed, bracelet glinting in the moonlight as sleep pulled her under. Kimberly sat upright, staring.
The moon painted Summer in silver—her smooth cheek, her delicate lashes, her perfect mouth. Kimberly memorized every detail, not with love but with something sharper. Something darker.
She thought of Lila, already slipping away. She thought of the muffins discarded, the laughter, the word tries. She thought of how easily Summer took everything, as though the world had been made for her alone. Kimberly lay down at last, but her eyes stayed open, fixed on the
ceiling.
And in that silence, she made herself a promise.
One day, she would leave. One day, she would return.