The Sibling Hug

Alice sat on the edge of her bed, tracing the worn stitching on her favorite teddy bear. The afternoon sun, usually a cheerful splash of gold across her room, felt dull and muted today. She watched Olivia across the hall, a whirlwind of giggles and happy chatter as she helped Mom sort through a pile of colorful scarves. Each shared smile, each soft word exchanged between them, felt like a tiny prickle under Alice’s skin. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

She remembered the glitter glue incident, how Mom had sighed and gently wiped the sticky mess from Alice’s cheek, but then her eyes had lit up when Olivia had presented a perfectly crafted, glitter-dusted card. And the art project, where Alice’s lopsided clay dog had been met with a polite nod, while Olivia’s intricate, painted bird had earned a chorus of delighted praise. It was always like this. Mom’s love, Alice was beginning to suspect, was like a pie. And there were so many of them, all of Sandra and Mary’s children, that by the time it got to Alice, there was only a tiny, crumbly sliver left.

She’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried. She’d tidied her toys with extra care, drawn the neatest pictures, and answered every question with a perfectly enunciated word. But nothing seemed to make Mom’s gaze linger on her a moment longer, nothing seemed to earn her the same kind of sparkling approval Olivia always seemed to receive. It was like trying to catch sunlight in her hands – the more she reached, the more it slipped away.