The air in the backyard smelled of lighter fluid, charred meat, and the cloying, synthetic sweetness of my sister-in-law’s cheap perfume. It was the Fourth of July, a day of national pride, yet I felt like a prisoner of war in my own brother’s home.
My name is Evelyn Vance. To the neighbors swarming the patio, holding red solo cups and laughing too loudly, I was simply “Mark’s sister.” The sad, unemployed single mother who had moved into the guest room three months ago. The woman who wore stained t-shirts and flinched at loud noises. The disgrace.
