Growing up, I was the invisible child. My brother, Daniel, two years my junior, was the sun around which my parents orbited. He was charismatic, handsome, and perpetually excused from the consequences of his actions. If Daniel failed a test, it was the teacher’s fault. If he crashed the car, the road was too slippery. I, on the other hand, was expected to be the bedrock—silent, sturdy, and supportive.

“You’re so independent, Sabrina,” my mother would say, a backhanded compliment that meant we don’t need to worry about you, so we won’t.