most of the guests.
My name is Olivia Doyle. I was thirty-four years old that evening, and for as long as I could remember, I had been the daughter everyone depended on but almost nobody noticed.
Camille was the daughter people admired.
I was the daughter who made sure everything worked.
Camille received compliments for looking beautiful in family photographs.
I was usually the one organizing the events, preparing the food, arranging transportation, and taking those photographs.
Camille knew how to make people feel impressed.
I knew how to make sure the electricity stayed on.
For years, I convinced myself that our different roles were simply part of being a family.
But standing at that buffet, I suddenly remembered something that had happened twenty-five years earlier.
Something I had never really forgotten.
I was nine years old.
It was my birthday.
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We were celebrating in the backyard of
