Chapter 2

I took a bus back to the suburban house that was never a home. My room was small, at the back of the house, a collection of cast-offs and faded memories. I pulled an old duffel bag from the closet and started packing the few things that were mine: some worn-out clothes, a handful of books, a framed photo of my grandmother, the only person who had ever looked at me with uncomplicated love.

From the hallway, I heard my brother Andrew' s voice, sharp and cutting. He was on the phone, no doubt with one of his new corporate law firm partners in Chicago.

"I can't believe her. Making a scene at a government office. It's utterly mortifying. Yes, my sister. The dramatic one. It' s a constant embarrassment, I swear. It could affect my image, my career prospects. She' s just so selfish, so ungrateful. You have no idea how much Molly has suffered, and this is how she repays us."

I stepped out of my room, the duffel bag in my hand. Andrew turned, his expensive suit looking out of place in our modest home. He ended the call, his face hardening.

"What?" he snapped.

"Do you even remember my 18th birthday last year, Andrew?" I asked, my voice quiet. "You were all so busy celebrating Molly's half-birthday that you forgot mine completely. Not a card, not a call. Nothing."

He flinched, a flicker of something-maybe shame-in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Don't try to change the subject. This is about your behavior today."

Just then, the front door opened again. My parents and Molly returned, their faces still dark with anger. Molly, ever the actress, rushed toward me, her face a picture of remorse.

"Gabby, I'm so sorry we fought," she said, her voice thick with fake emotion. "I know! To make up, why don' t you bake me one of your amazing peanut butter pies? For my party tonight. It would mean so much to me."

The room went silent. The air crackled with a history she had just invoked. I stared at her, my exhaustion giving way to a cold, clear anger.

"Molly," I said, my voice dangerously level. "You have a severe, life-threatening peanut allergy. Everyone knows that. You' ve known it for years."

The color drained from her face. The request was a trap, and I had just exposed the bait.

The memory hit me with the force of a physical blow. I was fourteen. Molly had just moved in. I baked a peanut butter cake for a school bake sale, leaving a piece for her as a welcome gift. I didn't know about the allergy; no one had told me. She ate it. She had a reaction-a bad one. My parents accused me of trying to poison her. They locked me in my room for a week with nothing but water and bread, my father roaring that I was a jealous monster. It was the first time he hit me. It wasn't the last.

Molly, caught in her lie, recovered instantly. She gasped, stumbling backward as if I' d struck her.

"You pushed me!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face.