My father’s name flashes on my phone screen for the fifth time.
I watch it vibrate against my glass desk, the sleek surface a far cry from the scratched oak table where I did homework as a child. Outside my window, Chicago’s skyline gleams in the afternoon sun, fifteen stories up and eight hundred miles from the ranch-style house where I learned to make myself small.
I hover my finger over Ignore again. The leather chair creaks as I shift my weight.
The phone falls silent.
Three seconds later, an email notification appears from Lawrence Reynolds.
Subject: Your Sister Needs You. Last Chance.
My stomach tightens as I open it, the words blurring together except for the final line:
Chloe’s wedding is the most important event of her life. Be there or forget about any future support.
A voicemail notification pops up next. I press play and set the phone on speaker.
“Maidin, it’s your father.”
His voice fills my apartment, commanding as ever.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but this has gone on long enough. Your sister’s wedding is in two weeks, and the festivities start this weekend. If you can’t put aside whatever grievance you have for Chloe’s special time, then you can forget about any future support from this family. Your mother is beside herself with worry. Call me back immediately.”
A bitter laugh escapes my throat.
I cross to the closet and pull out a frame hidden behind winter coats. The golden embossing catches the light.
Maidin Anne Reynolds
Bachelor of Science in Data Science
summa cum laude
Three years of dust instead of a place on my wall. Old habits die hard.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from my mother.
Please call. Your father is getting impatient.
I glance at the calendar on my desk. Chloe’s two-week wedding extravaganza is highlighted in angry red: fourteen days of ceremonies, parties, fittings, photo shoots, and attention for the golden child’s perfect day.
I tap open my banking app.
$138,139 in savings.
More than enough to never need their support again.
They just don’t know it yet.
A memory surfaces from third grade. I’m clutching my report card with five perfect A’s, standing beside my mother at the kitchen table while she flips through a magazine.
“That’s nice, honey,” she says without looking up.
That same night, the living room erupts in cheers for Chloe’s participation ribbon from the school play.
“Did you see how she projected her voice? She was the best one up there.”
My father’s face glows with pride while I sit invisible on the stairs.
Then sophomore year. The science fair. The blue ribbon I won for analyzing local water quality.
The empty chairs where my parents should have been.
They’d gone to Chloe’s soccer game instead. She’d scored one goal, and they talked about it for weeks.
Principal Williams handed me my award and smiled.
“Your parents must be so proud.”
I nodded, the hollow feeling in my chest already familiar.
Then senior year. The thick acceptance package from the University of Chicago, my hands trembling as I read the scholarship offer.
Chicago.
