I felt the familiar ache in my chest, the one that had been my constant companion since childhood. Jasmine was the daughter. I was just the eldest, the rehearsal child, the one who existed in the background. I was the one who learned early on that love in our household came with conditions I could never quite meet.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of excessive consumption. My mother took Jasmine shopping for her dress, a five-thousand-dollar creation of silk and lace that required three separate fittings. They picked out fine china patterns and registered for gifts at boutiques I couldn’t afford to step foot in. My father wrote check after check, his hands steady, his face pleased.