As I lay in that sterile room, the truth began to bloom inside me like a slow-burning bruise. It had always been like this. Clare, the golden child, the delicate one. And I was Stella, the strong one, the one who didn’t need coddling. My birthdays were quiet dinners; Clare’s were three-tiered cakes and backyard parties. My father missed my high school graduation because Clare had a panic attack over a B-minus. “You understand, right?” he’d said. “She really needed me.” And for years, I told myself I did.