Then I heard my mother’s voice, a sound that could curdle milk, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. “Riley! Riley, is that you?”

My stomach lurched as a familiar, icy dread settled deep inside me. I turned slowly, already feeling that old, conditioned tension crawl up my spine. Near the produce section stood my parents with my older sister, Brooke, and her two daughters—nine-year-old Taylor and six-year-old Zoey. At thirty-four, Brooke was three years older than me and had always been the family’s golden child, the center around which everything revolved. Her achievements were endlessly praised, while mine were routinely overlooked or brushed aside as unimportant.

My mother charged toward me, her face already twisted with fury. My father followed close behind, jaw tight and eyes hard. Brooke lingered just behind them, wearing that smug, self-satisfied smile she’d perfected over decades.

Before I could even react, my mother struck me. Her palm hit my face with such force that my vision swam, the sharp crack of the slap cutting through the noise of the store and briefly silencing the entire aisle.
“How dare you!” she screamed, loud enough to draw stares from dozens of shoppers. “How selfish can you possibly be?”

I stood frozen, my cheek burning, ears ringing. Ava startled and began to cry, clinging to my leg in fear. My mother’s gaze snapped to the doll box under my arm, her anger flaring anew.
“You bought something for her?” she spat, gesturing at Ava as if she were insignificant. “What about your sister’s kids? Taylor and Zoey matter too! They deserve things!”