“What do you think of cream and sage?” Mom asked. “Elegant, but not too grown-up?”
Amber smiled. “Maybe with gold accents.”
Dad nodded. “The rooms are probably small, but we can make it work.”
We.
I sat at the table and buttered toast. No one mentioned Northlake State. No one asked if I had slept. No one asked what I planned to do.
That was how the summer went.
Amber’s future filled the house. Boxes arrived. New luggage. New towels. New lamps. My mother made lists in bright, cheerful handwriting. My father paid deposits without complaint. Amber posted countdowns online about dream schools and new beginnings.
I worked extra shifts at a bookstore downtown and applied for scholarships between customers.
Sometimes my mother stood in my doorway and asked, “How is your planning going?”
“Fine,” I said.
She always looked relieved when I did not explain.
I began noticing old differences more clearly. When Amber wanted something, it became a family project. When I needed something, it became a lesson in responsibility. She got the car because she had “more activities.” I got bus schedules and praise for being resourceful. She went to leadership camp because it would help her applications. I worked summers because it built character. She needed an expensive prom dress because photos mattered. I found one on clearance and was told I looked pretty because I could “pull off simple.”
