The meeting drags on, practicalities discussed in abstract terms.
My sister’s plans, her needs, are detailed, specific.
Mine remain vague, undefined, as if I’m an afterthought in my own life.
I try to interject, to assert my own aspirations, but the conversation flows around me like water around a stone.
The frustration simmers beneath my skin, a quiet roar of injustice.
I’m not angry at my sister; she’s just living in the world they built for her.
But the realization stings, that my future is tethered to what’s left after her needs are met.
My mother reaches across the table, a conciliatory gesture.
“We’re proud of you too,” she insists, but the words lack conviction.
“It just seems like…” I start, but my voice falters.
There’s a shift, a fleeting moment where our eyes meet, and I see a flicker of acknowledgment.
Maybe she knows, maybe she understands, but the ledger’s truth is hard to erase.
The meeting ends with vague promises and a sense of unfinished business.
I retreat to my room, the walls closing in, the weight of the day pressing down.
But there’s a resolve forming, a quiet determination that I will carve out my own path, ledger or not.
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