The house was mine because I had paid for it.
Every mortgage payment.
Every insurance premium.
Every property tax bill.
Every repair.
Every closing cost.
Every dollar.
But my parents believed that because I had been successful while my sister had struggled, my success somehow belonged to both of them.
Or, more accurately, to Priscilla.
That belief had been growing in my family for decades.
Growing up, Priscilla was always the favorite.
I was expected to get straight A’s.
Work hard.
Stay out of trouble.
Become independent.
Priscilla was encouraged to “find herself.”
When I succeeded, my parents considered it normal.
When Priscilla did almost anything, they celebrated it.
My parents attended her art shows.
They helped her with projects.
They paid for supplies.
They gave her spending money.
They supported her whenever she announced a new passion.
Meanwhile, they missed my high school graduation because Priscilla had a pottery workshop.
