The comments quickly appeared.
*You’re an incredible daughter!*
*Your parents are so lucky to have you!*
*You always plan the most beautiful events!*
Then Mom commented.
*That’s my girl. So proud of you.*
I stared at those words.
The same words I had spent most of my life trying to earn.
My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere.
Not in Camille’s caption.
Not in the comments.
Not even in my mother’s response.
The following day, Camille posted photographs of the flowers.
Then the menu.
Then the dining room.
Each post made it appear that she had personally arranged everything.
I didn’t comment.
I didn’t correct anyone.
I just watched.
One afternoon, my friend Teresa noticed the pictures while we were having lunch at work.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Isn’t that the anniversary party you’ve been planning for months?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is your sister pretending she arranged it?”
I shrugged.
“That’s what Camille does.”
Teresa looked at me for a long moment.
“Olivia, why do you keep allowing this?”
I didn’t have an answer.
The day before the celebration, I visited my great-aunt Ruth.
She was my grandmother’s younger sister, eighty-four years old, and one of the few people in our family who had always made me feel important simply for being myself.
She lived in a small brick house on the north side of town.
Her rooms were filled with plants, old books, and a rather spoiled cat named Mister.
I brought her a white rose corsage for the party.
She held it carefully and smiled.
“You didn’t have to bring me anything, sweetheart.”
“I wanted to.”
She invited me inside for tea.
We sat at her little kitchen table while Mister slept on the windowsill.
“How’s the celebration coming along?” she asked.
“Everything’s ready.”
“I saw Camille’s pictures online.”
I looked down at my cup.
