They both stared at me, their faces a twisted mask of expectation and a smug, poorly hidden satisfaction. It was as if they were waiting for the explosion—the screaming, the shattered wine glasses, the public meltdown that would give the other patrons something to gossip about over their dessert. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.
This was Beatrice. The sister I had practically raised. The sister whose college tuition I helped pay when our parents’ bank accounts ran dry. And here she was, holding my husband’s hand, telling me she had stolen the life I thought was mine on the very day I should have been celebrated.
“How long?” I managed to whisper. My voice sounded foreign, a flat, robotic tone that didn’t feel like it belonged to me.
“Three months,” Beatrice replied. She instinctively ran her hand over her stomach, though there wasn’t a hint of a bump yet. “It started right after your birthday.”
My birthday had been in December. It was now May. That meant five months of betrayal. Five months of smiles and “I love yous” and casual dinners, all while they laughed at me behind my back. While I was pulling twelve-hour shifts to secure a future for David and me, he was busy building a new one with my sister.
“Marina, say something,” David pleaded. I looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. He looked relieved. The coward actually looked like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as if confessing his treachery was some kind of heroic, liberating act.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked, that strange, hollow voice still echoing in my ears. “Should I say congratulations?”
Beatrice let out a short, nervous laugh. “Look, Mari, I know it’s a lot to take in, but these things just happen. Love is love, right? And the baby…” She stroked her belly again. “The baby needs both parents. We need to be together.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I slowly reached for my purse, pulled out two fifty-dollar bills, and laid them on the table. It was more than enough to cover my share of the wine I hadn’t even finished. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead.
“I’m going home,” I said quietly. “You two… do whatever it is you’re going to do.”
As I walked toward the exit, I heard David calling my name, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. But as I passed a large, gilded mirror on the far wall, I caught their reflections. They were still sitting there. And Beatrice was smiling.
Growing up, Beatrice had always lived in my shadow, and it was a reality that ate her alive. I was the eldest, the “responsible one,” the daughter who pulled straight A’s without breaking a sweat. She was the baby of the family, the spoiled one, protected from every consequence by our parents. But for some reason, being the favorite was never enough for her. She didn’t just want love; she wanted what I had.
We grew up in a comfortable middle-class home in San Antonio. Our father was an accountant for an oil firm, and our mother taught elementary school. We never wanted for anything, but Beatrice always walked around with the persistent, nagging feeling that she was being cheated out of something greater.
When I earned a full-ride scholarship to the University of Texas to study business, she dismissed it as “rich girl’s luck.” When I graduated with honors and landed a prestigious internship in Austin, she made snide comments about how I always knew how to “sell myself.” When I bought my first apartment at twenty-five, she didn’t congratulate me; she asked if I was becoming “too ambitious” for my own good.
The worst part was her unshakable belief that she deserved the same rewards I had, but without any of the sweat or sacrifice. To her, success wasn’t the result of discipline; it was a matter of luck or favoritism. She had studied graphic design at a public college, drifted through her classes, and spent the years since graduation bouncing from one mediocre freelance gig to another, always complaining that her “genius” wasn’t being recognized by the world.
Our parents tried to keep the scales balanced, which only fueled her entitlement. When I bought a new Honda Civic, they scrambled to find a used car for her so she wouldn’t feel left out. As my income grew, they increased the “allowance” they gave her to help with her rent in San Antonio. They were artificially keeping her at my level, trying to heal a resentment that was bottomless.