Fifteen Years of Being Their Joke

When I was eight, my older sister pointed a finger in my face and told me I'd been adopted out of foster care.

I went crying to our parents. With their arms around her, they nodded.

“Yes. Your real parents didn't want you.”

After that, I stopped competing with her for affection. I didn't dare ask for new clothes. I took over the housework and fought for the highest grades in my class, terrified that if I wasn't good enough, they'd get rid of me, too.

I lived that way for fifteen years.

Then, this October, I booked my trip home early so I could spend a few days with my family. I reached the door and heard my sister talking to our relatives in the living room.

“My sister's hilarious. We had a fight when we were kids, and I just made up this thing about her being adopted.”

“She believed it for years. She's been our perfectly obedient little maid ever since.”

A relative sounded startled. “And you never told her the truth?”

Mom laughed. “Why would we? She got so much easier after she believed it.”

“She does everything without being asked. Best joke we ever played.”

I stood outside the door, cold all over.

Fifteen years of watching every word, every move. All because of a joke.

I didn't burst in and scream for an explanation. I opened my phone and signed the contract for a five-year assignment in Northern Europe.

They liked their joke so much. Fine.

The outsider could disappear from their lives for good.

——————————

“You signed?”

My manager's voice sounded loud against my ear. I was still in the hallway outside my family's apartment, my finger hovering over the contract's confirmation button.

“I signed.”

I brought the phone closer. I barely recognized how steady I sounded.

“Then get moving. Your flight's October fifth, through Helsinki to Oslo. Admin already booked the ticket.”

October fifth. The day after tomorrow.

I looked at our closed front door. The laughter hadn't stopped.

My sister Natalie's voice carried above everyone else's. It always had in that home.

“Do you have much to bring? Should we arrange shipping?”

“No. One suitcase.”

“All right. Call Daniel Hayes, the team lead, when you land. He'll pick you up.”

After hanging up, I crouched beside the hallway fire extinguisher and stayed there for three minutes.

My hands weren't shaking. My heart was racing, but it wasn't panic. I felt cold and burning hot at once.

Fifteen years.

How much was an eight-year-old supposed to understand?

My sister had said I was adopted, and I'd believed her. Our parents had confirmed it, and I'd never questioned it again.

From then on, I backed down first in every argument. Whenever new clothes came up, I said I didn't need any. At family dinners, I perched on whatever extra seat I could find at the edge of the table, afraid of taking a place that wasn't mine.

And now, on the other side of that door, Mom was laughing. Laughing at how good I'd been. How well their little joke had worked.

The door opened suddenly.

Dad's sister, my aunt Janet, came out with a fruit platter and nearly walked into me.

“Oh! Claire? When did you get here?”

Claire Bennett. That was my name.

My sister was Natalie, a name my parents had chosen carefully, full of hopes for the person she'd become. Mine sounded just as considered. In fact, Dad had opened a baby-name book at random and picked something before filling out the birth certificate. He hadn't even looked at the meaning.

I learned those details later.

“Just now.”

I stood and brushed at my pants, though there was nothing on them.

Aunt Janet caught my arm warmly and pulled me inside. “Come on. Your mom made Natalie's favorite baked salmon. It's her birthday, after all.”

Natalie's birthday was October third.

Mine was September twenty-eighth. Five days earlier.

No one had mentioned it.

The living room was decorated. Nothing extravagant, but someone had taken care. The balloons were Natalie's favorite dusty blue. The cake read, “Happy 27th Birthday, Natalie!”

My mother, Susan, was cooking with her older sister. Grease speckled Mom's apron, and she was smiling so broadly that the corners of her eyes creased.

Dad, Robert Bennett, sat on the couch having coffee with Janet's husband. The television was on, but neither of them was watching.

Natalie curled up at the other end of the couch, scrolling through her phone. She lifted her chin when she saw me.

“Oh, you came. I figured you weren't coming home this week.”

“I'm here.”

“Put your stuff in your room. I straightened up in there a couple days ago. Some things ended up in there, so you'll have to move them around.”

I opened the door to my little bedroom.

Clothes Natalie had cleared out for the season covered the bed. Her leftover skin-care samples crowded the vanity. A box of her old magazines took up half my desk.

She hadn't straightened it up. She'd turned it into storage.

I moved her things into the corner, one at a time, until half the bed was clear.

That was enough. I only needed it for two nights.

From the living room, Aunt Janet called, “Claire, come help bring the food out.”

Not come eat. Come serve.

There were nine of us at dinner. I counted eight chairs.

For the ninth seat, I carried a folding stool in from the balcony myself.

“Sit there, Claire. You can pass things from the kitchen. You're closest.” Mom said it as casually as if she were assigning a server's section.

Natalie was already opening presents. Aunt Janet had brought a silk scarf. Mom's sister had given her a lipstick gift set. From our parents, there was a watch with Natalie's name engraved on the back.

“Dad, this must've cost a fortune!” Her eyes shone as she held it up.

Dad gave one of his rare smiles. “Over two thousand dollars. You're worth it.”

Over two thousand.

I'd sent home sixteen hundred after my last paycheck. I wondered how much of it I was looking at on her wrist.

“What did you get your sister, Claire?” Aunt Janet asked with a smile.

Everyone turned toward me.

I took the birthday card I'd prepared from my bag and handed it over, the money tucked inside.

“Four hundred dollars. Get yourself something you want.”

Natalie glanced inside, then dropped it on the table as carelessly as a used napkin.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Mom frowned and leaned toward me. “Only four hundred? Your sister's so good to you. Don't be so cheap.”

I stopped with my fork halfway to my plate.

Good to me? How?

By telling an eight-year-old she wasn't really part of the family? By leaving that lie in place for fifteen years? By calling me their perfectly obedient little maid just minutes ago?

I swallowed my food and said nothing.

The laughter around the table went on. We all knew our parts by now.

Mine was to carry food, refill plates, and clean up afterward.

I only had one line.

“Okay.”