Beatrice was clever. Polished. Smarter, prettier, always better. While I swallowed my hurt, she shined. And when I married Oliver, I thought she was happy. Little did I know, she was stealing him from me. I was even happy because the two people I cared for were close.
For years, I told myself to be understanding. To forgive. To keep peace. But now… now I was so tired I couldn’t even muster words for her fake sympathy.
So I ignored her. I turned my face away.
Beatrice’s lips trembled—then she dropped into a sob, loud and exaggerated, the kind that could rattle walls. “Sister, please! Don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry, okay? I should have defended you from them. I just want us to be okay!”
Her crocodile tears spilled as she collapsed beside me, wailing.
The basement door creaked open. Oliver’s voice thundered. “What’s happening?”
Beatrice clutched her arm, trembling with feigned fear. “She—she pushed me! She’s mad at me, Oliver!”
My chest tightened. I wanted to scream Liar! but my lungs refused to cooperate. My head spun, my knees wavered. I couldn’t breathe.