A small sharp heat bloomed in my chest.
Before I could say anything, a voice at my elbow said, “Your sister’s work is impressive.
I had no idea she was into environmental science.”
I turned to find one of my father’s colleagues smiling at me as if expecting agreement.
I steadied my voice.
“Yes, she’s very good at presentation.”
I let the paws hang just long enough for the words to taste pointed without crossing the line into open confrontation.
My father’s laughter from the headt carried across the room.
Sirene was in the middle of a story, gesturing with perfect poise, the editor leaning forward, engaged.
She could play the role of accomplished professional as if she’d been born into it.
I knew if I interrupted now, I’d be painted as the jealous little sister.
So, I sat back down, reminding myself of what a professor once told me.
People will steal your spotlight if you let them, but they can’t take what you know.
I’d barely refocused on my plate when my mother’s voice rose above the murmur.
“Oh, this reminds me.”
Noa began, smiling sweetly to her table.
“When Arlina was in her second year, she almost got herself expelled.
Skipped mandatory seminars for weeks.
Can you imagine?”
A ripple of polite laughter followed.
A few guests looked my way, some amused, others clearly uncomfortable.
I set my fork down.
“Actually,” I said evenly.
“I was in Europe on an academic exchange, approved and sponsored by the department chair.”
My tone stayed mild, the kind you use when you’re simply correcting a harmless mistake.
“But I suppose that version isn’t as entertaining.”
Noella’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly before she turned back to her companions.
I sat back, fingers wrapped around my water glass.
None of this was accidental.
Every public jab, every quiet redirection of credit, it was all part of the same campaign.
My aunt Ranata’s voice floated into my memory.
Never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake.
I wasn’t here to defend every strike.
I was here to remember, to choose my moment.
The trio shifted into something livelier as servers began clearing plates.
I glanced toward the far side of the room.
Hollis was standing near a column, one hand resting casually on their camera strap, the other signaling me with a subtle motion, their expression was unreadable, but it wasn’t casual.
I straightened in my chair.
Whatever they’d seen, I had a feeling it was going to matter.
The room dimmed and the low hum of conversation tapered off as the screen above the stage flickered to life.
My stomach tightened.
Years of these family presentations had taught me one thing.
They weren’t just sentimental slideshows.
They were curated narratives.
Soft piano music played over the speakers as images began to roll.
Christmas mornings, vacation snapshots, milestone dinners.
The years scrolled past in carefully selected fragments.
The warmth of the lighting couldn’t hide the cold truth.
I started counting.
One holiday without me.
Two.
A birthday party where I knew I’d been there.