The conversation with Aria had lasted nearly two hours, but it felt like minutes.
Watching my daughter finally break down and admit her feelings—the jealousy, the inadequacy, the love mixed with resentment—had been both heartbreaking and relieving. I'd watched her pull away from family dinners, avoid Arthur's attempts at conversation, throw herself into social activities that kept her out of the house.
I'd known something was wrong. A mother always knows.
But hearing her sob against my shoulder, confessing how much it hurt to watch her friends worship her brother while she struggled to maintain mediocrity, had confirmed my worst fears. My brilliant, kind, determined daughter was drowning in the shadow of her extraordinary sibling.
"I hate that I feel this way," she had whispered through her tears. "He's never been anything but loving and supportive. What kind of person am I?"
