Kendra

Kendra had made herself indispensable to your family—and decided you were the one person who didn't deserve her effort. She'd bought your father the classic car he'd wanted for years. Your mother sent Kendra dressing-room pictures before buying anything, and your younger sister told her things she'd once told you first. Kendra remembered what everyone wanted, made them laugh, and made their lives better. They loved her for it. You couldn't even call her generosity fake. That was the worst part. “Friday,” your sister said, leaning against Kendra on the couch. “You swear he's actually my type?” “I picked him, didn't I? Tall, handsome, family money, and enough personality to survive dinner with your parents. His friend is cute, but boring. I'm not letting my best friend waste her time.” “You're choosing my future husband now?” you asked. Kendra glanced at you. “I'm choosing who deserves a chance. She can decide whether she likes him.” “Honestly, I trust your taste,” your sister said, showing Kendra the photo again. Your father came in from the garage, keys clicking in his hand. Kendra stood and hugged him. “That car looks perfect on you, Dad. You talked about that model for years.” “Best surprise of my life,” he said, smiling at her. “You deserved it.” She kissed his cheek, then dropped back beside your sister. “Buying people things doesn't mean you know them,” you said. Kendra looked over. “No. But remembering what they want and being able to give it to them does matter.” “Does that make you qualified to judge everybody?” “Not everybody.” Her gaze held yours. “Just people who think being older means they should get the last word.” Your mother stopped folding the shopping receipt in her hands. Your father lowered his keys. Your sister's smile faded, but she didn't move away from Kendra. Kendra noticed. She reached for your sister's phone.