I push my stack of paper plates to the side and grab the plain white porcelain set Gran gave me when I moved in. I send her a quiet thank-you as I set them on the counter. Even though Daisy is fresh out of college and should be riding the struggle bus, she’s always lived that Uber Black life. Her mom is old money, and whenever I’d visit them, I’d return home with insecurities about my secondhand denim and our tiny two-bedroom rental house. I don’t even know if Daisy would notice, but the tiny bit of pride I have won’t let me serve dinner on paper plates.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” I call from the kitchen as I rattle around my silverware drawer. “When did you get here?”

“Dad didn’t tell you? I got in last weekend.” Sweet Daisy, after all these years living with Andrew Young, still manages to have the faith in him that I lost in kindergarten. But he’s never been the same person to her that he is to me, and when I’m not bitter about it, I’m glad at least one of us might avoid spending countless hours with a therapist.

Because Andrew Young, our father—and tragically, my namesake—is trash.

How he’s the absolute freaking worst is still a mystery. Obviously Gran was the best, and from what she told me, so was my grandpa. But genetics are weird and maybe the awesome gene skips generations. Add that to the long list of reasons I should never reproduce.

“No, I haven’t heard from him in a while, actually.” I haven’t had to ignore any of his calls recently, and it’s been blissfully quiet from him as of late. “How long are you staying?”

“I’m here to stay!” Daisy, who always sounds like she’s talking in all caps, says. “I nailed down an internship with Nella Moon, a designer here.”

If I hadn’t amassed hours of practice faking peppiness with people at work all day, I’m not sure I could’ve prevented my jaw from hitting the table. I don’t know if I’m angry or frustrated hearing this news, but I do know I’m ashamed for not being happy.

She isn’t responsible for a grown-ass man abandoning me for his new, shiny family. It’s not Daisy’s fault she was born into a life where her existence minimized mine.

But logic doesn’t supersede emotion; it hasn’t prevented resentment from coloring every interaction we’ve had together.

“Wow! That’s . . . wow!” I force the words out, hoping they sound light and friendly. “Congratulations.”

I feel like I should ask some questions, or better yet, already have an inkling of the goings-on in my sister’s life, but the sad truth is, I’m sure her Instagram followers know more about her life than I ever will.