I had already locked my grandparents’ million-dollar estate behind legal protection by the time my parents and sister decided to come claim it. They stood in my house smiling and told me, “Penny owns this place now. You’re out by Friday.”

My father, Harrison Sinclair, had expanded a family fortune through a very successful corporate law practice. My mother, Meredith, belonged to the world of charity galas and invisible webs of social influence.

My brother Dominic was the firstborn son and the future success story of the dynasty. My younger sister Penny was the beautiful baby of the family whose smallest preferences were treated with the significance of law.

I was the middle child, which in our house meant becoming the control group in a long experiment about worth. It meant watching my parents say yes to my siblings so quickly that the generosity felt elegant.

Dominic was the golden child whose mistakes were always reframed as ambitious leadership experiments. If he wanted something, my parents only asked what would help him succeed in the long run.

Penny occupied a different category because she was adored and protected from any form of disappointment. Her wants arrived wrapped in softness, and the whole household moved to anticipate her needs before she even spoke them.