He nodded as he grabbed the can opener for the coconut milk. “Okay.”

Marianne had to get better grades. The way to do that was to do her homework. The best way to do her homework was to get help. Her mom wanted to help. Yet the thought of her mom seeing how far behind she’d gotten made her feel sick. Marianne wanted to escape from her skin, turn into a wisp of the steam coming out of the rice cooker, and slip out of the window her dad had cracked open to bring in the cool air.

“Those look great, Mar,” he said, pointing his head toward the onions as he prepared the chicken pan. “Thanks.”

Typical Dad move, trying to soften his annoyance by giving a compliment.

“Lillian did it,” Marianne felt forced to admit.

“Thanks,” he said to her big sister.

And that was when Marianne lost it.

“Yeah, Lillian!” she said in her fakest voice. “Nice job! Great work! You’re the best! You’re the daughter I always dreamt of! We’re the luckiest!”

Her dad stopped whisking.

Marianne heard her mom sigh, but she couldn’t face her. She knew the expression she’d be making: disappointed, worried, rubbing the creases on her forehead like if she rubbed them hard enough she could make the Marianne problem go away.

“Nice,” Lillian said. “I’m going upstairs.”

Marianne immediately felt horrible. “No, wait, I’m sorry!” She grabbed her sister by her sweater sleeve and pulled her in for a hug. “That was annoying. I take it back.”

Lillian’s typically open and warm arms remained at her sides.

“Really sorry,” Marianne said into Lillian’s ear.

And Lillian softened, her arms embracing Marianne in return.

“You’re always annoying, so it’s no big deal,” Lillian said.

Marianne could hear her dad’s whisking slowly and steadily start up again, and her mom zipped open the backpack to investigate the homework situation.

“Annoying is a key part of the little-sister contract, if memory serves me correctly,” their dad said as he smelled the sauce. He had four younger siblings, three of them girls.

Her mom threw Marianne’s half-open backpack over one of her tiny shoulders and reset her mode from concerned to raring-to-go. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

Marianne followed her in surrender.

Progress charts, spreadsheets, and a big whiteboard filled her mom’s study. Her mom took everything out from the backpack and piled it on her work desk.

“Ooh, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn! I loved this book!” her mom said, as if announcing to Marianne that they would never have anything in common. “How far along are you?” She lovingly flipped through the pages.

“Sentence two!”

When it was math time, Marianne felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Her mom talked her through each problem, often remarking, “Wow, I honestly hardly even remember this stuff,” and then somehow finding the answer time after time. Marianne bit the insides of her mouth and squeezed her hands into fists, released them, and squeezed again.