I was the reliable daughter.
The one who remembered birthdays.
Covered bills.
Answered when Mom called because something needed fixing.
And somehow, being dependable always meant **I was expected to need less.**
The morning after my birthday, I came downstairs ready for work and reached for the ceramic bowl where I’d left my keys.
Empty.
Mom sat at the kitchen island drinking coffee.
“Where are my keys?”
She didn’t look guilty.
“Ava took the SUV.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She has an interview downtown.”
“With my car?”
Mom sighed in that familiar way meant to make me feel childish.
“Amelia, don’t start. Her car is acting up, and she needs to make a good impression.”
“I need to get to work.”
“You have Uber.”
Those three words hit harder than they should have.
**You have Uber.**
As though Grandpa had spent nearly forty thousand dollars so Ava could improve her image while I paid strangers to drive me to the job I actually had.
