It’s 2:17 AM. My phone says 2:17. I checked it twice. Kiddo finally asleep, took forever tonight. Stomach bug, you know? The kind where you have to hold the bowl and it smells like a sewer explosion and you just… you just want to cry. But you can’t. Because you’re the grown-up. You’re the responsible one. Always. And for some reason, this just took me right back to Sunday. Family brunch. Easter. Does anyone else feel like they’re just… watching their own life sometimes? Like it’s a movie, but you’re stuck in the back row, and everyone else is on screen, center stage, getting all the laughs and applause? That’s what it felt like. Again. My sister, Clara. Of course. She walks in, all sunshine and expensive-smelling perfume, a new boyfriend in tow – already his arm is around her waist, like they’ve been together for years, not three weeks. And BAM. Instant party. The whole room just… shifts. “Clara! There’s my girl! Tell us that story about the time you… “ and suddenly everyone’s talking over each other, trying to get her attention. My dad, who barely grunts at me when I try to talk about the library’s new outreach program, is practically falling over himself laughing at some anecdote Clara’s telling about her gap year in Costa Rica. *Her gap year*. A decade ago. And he remembers every detail. And me? I’m there. I AM THERE. I brought the fruit salad, perfectly cut melon and berries, no seeds in the grapes, exactly how Mom likes it. I made sure Little E wore his nice shirt and didn’t get chocolate on it until *after* the main course. I spent three hours Saturday cleaning the house we were hosting in – because Mom said “Oh, you’re so good at that, sweetie, Clara’s so busy with her exciting life!” My exciting life, which apparently involves scrubbing grout. Then Clara, she looks at me, really looks, for like a second. “Oh, hey, big sis! How are the books?” She calls them “the books.” Not a library. Not a career. “The books.” Like I’m just some dusty old spinster librarian surrounded by… “the books.” And everyone laughs. Because it’s Clara, and she’s charming, and even her mild jabs are funny because they’re *hers*. And I just… I just smile. The tight, thin-lipped smile I’ve perfected over twenty-odd years of family gatherings. The one that says “I’m fine, really! I’m totally fine with being invisible!” Mom pulled me aside later, right as I was loading the dishwasher for the third time. “You know, honey,” she said, wiping a crumb from the counter with her napkin, “Clara just has this… sparkle. She always has. It’s just who she is. And you, you’re so steady. So reliable. Every family needs a rock. You’re our rock.” Our rock. That’s what I am. A big, grey, unmoving lump that everyone else can lean on, push off from, or just plain ignore. The foundation. The part you don’t even notice until it cracks. Anyone else feel this? Like you’re just… the sturdy furniture? Everyone uses you, needs you there, but nobody actually *sees* you. They just expect you to be there. And God forbid you ever ask for anything. A weekend without being on call for a sick kid. A conversation where someone actually asks about *my* day, not just how Little E is, or if I’ve talked to Clara lately. Just… one. single. thing. For me. And the worst part is, a tiny, ugly voice in my head, it whispers, *she’s right*. Clara *does* have a sparkle. She’s funnier, prettier, bolder. She actually goes places and does things. And I’m here. Wiping up puke. Sorting overdue notices. Wishing someone, just one person, would tell me I’m sparkling too. Even just a little bit. Is that too much to ask? Or am I just the old book on the shelf that no one bothers to open anymore?