Victoria was getting married. My older sister, the golden child, the daughter who could do no wrong in our mother’s eyes.

The invitation was formal, traditional, exactly what I expected from her. White embossed lettering announced her union to someone named Gregory, a name I’d never heard her mention during our increasingly rare phone calls. I should have been happy for her. Sisters are supposed to be happy for each other during milestone moments. But as I held that invitation, all I could think about was the last family dinner we’d attended together six months earlier.

Our mother had hosted Thanksgiving at her house in the suburbs. I’d brought a pumpkin cheesecake I’d spent two days perfecting, layers of spiced cream cheese and ginger snap crust that had turned out beautifully. Victoria had brought store-bought pie.