My sister, Madison, has always been the family’s golden girl—three years older, bright where I’m quiet, golden-haired where I’m dark, and utterly allergic to hearing “no.” As kids, she always got the bigger room, the newer things, and endless justifications for her behavior. I learned early to stay out of the way and build my own life.

She married Derek at twenty-two. Their first baby, Emma, came a year later. By then, I was twenty-nine, single by preference, working in software engineering, and settled into a calm, three-bedroom home outside Portland. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was peaceful—and mine.

“Guess What? Number Four.”
In early September, Mom invited me for Sunday dinner. That usually meant she wanted a favor. Madison was already there, one hand resting on her stomach.

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“Guess what?” she announced the second I walked in. “We’re having number four.”

I managed a genuine, “Congratulations.” Her children—Emma (7), Lucas (5), and Tyler (2)—already made her house sound like a daycare.

“There’s more,” she said. “The doctor says my blood pressure’s high. I might need to go on partial bed rest.”

Mom’s eyes flicked to me. My stomach dropped.

“So Derek and I decided,” Madison went on, shifting into her practiced, soft tone that always disguises a demand. “The kids will stay with you until I deliver. You’ve got the room. They love Aunt Jessica.”