Around three I climbed down the ladder to refill my bottle and looked through the kitchen window.
My parents were inside with the air conditioning running, eating sliced watermelon. My father was miming my movement from the first day for my mother, exaggerating the way I had shifted a bundle on my shoulder, performing the awkwardness of it for her entertainment.
She laughed until she had to sit down.
That was the moment.
Not the worst thing they had ever done. Not even close to the worst. But there is a particular quality to the moment when every prior slight arranges itself in perfect order behind a new one, when the pattern becomes too fully visible to un-see. Every Christmas where my gift was practical while my sister’s was beautiful. Every weekend I spent mowing their lawn while my sister rested. Every family dinner where I was praised for being reliable right before someone handed me another task. Every loan I was guilted into repaying twice. Every compliment that was secretly an assignment.
