Here’s a rewritten version that keeps the same meaning: “You’re nothing like your sister,” my mom remarked at dinner. I pushed my chair away from the table and replied, “Then she can start covering your rent.” My dad went pale. “Rent? What rent?”

On paper, my life looks steady. Predictable. I am a financial manager at a logistics company near the Portland Harbor. My world is built on the bedrock of logic: numbers, deadlines, supply chains, and systems that make sense. There is a profound calmness in spreadsheets that real life has never offered me. When I balance a ledger, the columns align. The math works. There is no ambiguity, no favoritism.

My days follow a soothing, mechanical rhythm: the echo of forklifts grinding at the docks, the fluorescent hum of the office, the soft, tactile click of my keyboard as I bring order to chaos. I go home to a small apartment with warm lamps, a beige rug, and a view of the Willamette River. Some nights I cook pasta, tie my hair up in a messy bun, and take comfort in small, orderly things. A perfectly brewed cup of tea. A balanced checkbook. A quiet room.

But the steadiness ends every Friday.

That is when I drive to my parents’ two-story house in the suburbs. It is a place wrapped in manicured hedges and the illusion of the American Dream. It is a stage set, pristine and hollow. Inside, the perfection cracks fast. The moment I step through the door, the confident, thirty-year-old financial manager dissolves. I am sixteen again. I am the second daughter. I am the supporting role in Vivian’s highlight reel.

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