“Elizabeth, you really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” my mother said, barely glancing at my dessert before placing it on the far corner of the buffet table. “Victoria’s pie looks lovely, so classic and traditional.”

That was how it always went. Victoria could show up empty-handed and receive praise for her presence alone. I could bring the moon on a silver platter and it would somehow be too much, too showy, too “trying too hard.”

The wedding invitation included a small note card handwritten in Victoria’s perfect cursive.

Elizabeth,

I know we haven’t been as close lately, but it would mean everything to have you there. You’re my only sister.

I called her that evening. She answered on the fourth ring, sounding distracted.

“Victoria, I got your invitation. Congratulations.”