When we had pulled up to my sister Clara’s house an hour earlier, a familiar knot was already forming in my stomach. Maybe this time things will be different, I’d told myself. Maybe Clara and Mom will actually be kind.

I turned to Nora, who was smoothing the front of her yellow sundress. She had saved up for it herself by babysitting the neighbors’ twins. It wasn’t flashy or expensive, but it was her—soft, pretty, and modest. She looked beautiful.

“Just be yourself, sweetie,” I said, squeezing her hand. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

She smiled, but I could see the nervousness in her big, hopeful eyes. We were immediately hit by the smell of grilled meat and the sound of forced laughter. It was the kind of family gathering you see in commercials, all sunshine and smiles, but I knew better. This wasn’t about connection; it was about comparison, a quiet, suburban battlefield where worth was measured in brand names and job titles.