I never let my parents know that Grandma had left me ten million dollars. In their version of our family, I was the afterthought—the quiet daughter fading behind my perfect sister, Raven. She was the honor-roll star, the team captain, the one they displayed with pride. I was the background figure, the child who learned how to clap for herself in empty rooms.

I nodded.

“Yes,” I rasped.

Raven

I didn’t ask about Raven for weeks.

Part of me was afraid to.

Not because I didn’t care.

Because caring had always been weaponized in our house.

Caring meant sacrifice.

Caring meant you disappeared so someone else could shine.

But one morning, while a therapist guided me through breathing exercises, a nurse mentioned Raven’s name casually in the hallway.

“She’s still in critical,” the nurse said to someone else. “Poor thing.”

The words sank into me like cold water.

Later that day, I asked Ms. Laird—quietly, with my eyes fixed on the window so I wouldn’t have to see her expression if the answer was bad.

“How… is Raven?”

Ms. Laird paused. She chose her words carefully.

“She’s alive,” she said. “Still recovering. Still complicated.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t know what to feel.

Raven had been my shadow and my cage at the same time. Not because she’d built it, necessarily—but because everyone else had.

“Did she…” I tried again, struggling for the words. “Did she know?”