I keep hoping it’ll get easier as the years go by, but it hasn’t yet. Time doesn’t make this any less painful, especially when I lack closure.

I wish I knew why they were like this. I wish there was a simple explanation behind their behavior, beyond society’s expectations. I wish there was a way to sit them down and demand some kind of answer for all the damage they’ve done. I wish there was a way to ask why I’m not enough as I am.

But I know there’s no easy answer. Not one any of us can put into words anyway.

We’re raised to see our parents as infallible, to believe they’re incapable of making mistakes—but what about when they do? What about when they keep making them? What about when their mistakes hurt us?

I used to blame myself. I thought it was my own fault. I thought I deserved it.

Now I know that’s far from the truth. I didn’t realize until Anam started blaming herself, too. That’s when I found the flaw in the system. How could my sister—my lovely, brave, beautiful, kind sister—be responsible for my parents’ actions? And if it wasn’t her fault, then how could it be mine?

Knowing the blame lies entirely on my parents doesn’t stop it from hurting. No matter how much I bury it beneath the surface, their lack of love is an ache I don’t know how to heal from.

But I can hide it—I can cover it up, the same way the movies do.

23

Monday brings yet another incident of Rosie pretending our minor altercation didn’t happen. I want to rip my hair out in frustration when I see her in front of my locker. She’s carrying a can of Pringles, her favorite snack, even though it’s barely eight in the morning—but more importantly, she’s smiling like nothing is wrong.

I hate not knowing what I can or can’t say to her, and the feeling heightens with each passing week.

“Hi,” I say, coming to stand before her.

Rosie reaches over to fiddle with the end of my braid. “Apparently NYU is going to send out our decisions in the next few weeks,” she says, nearly bouncing in her spot. “We’ll probably hear back soon.”

I raise my eyebrows, previous worries forgotten. Though I also applied to NYU, I’m more concerned about Rosie’s application than mine. “Really? Have you been checking online?”

She nods, toying with her own hair a moment later. “Nothing yet. But a lot of people with SAT scores and GPAs similar to mine on Naviance marked their applications as accepted around the same time last year.”