The first house I ever designed existed for less than a minute.

I was nine years old, sitting in the back seat of a car, drawing with one finger across a fogged window.

I traced a roof.

Large windows.

A fireplace.

Rooms arranged in a way that made sense to me, even though I had no words for why.

I wanted a house that felt as though whoever created it had cared about the people who would eventually live inside.

Then the fog disappeared.

So did the house.

I drew it again.

And again.

My mother eventually turned around.

“Miranda, stop drawing on the window.”

“Okay.”

I stopped.

But I kept the house in my head.

Thirty-one years later, I suppose I’m still drawing it.

My name is Miranda Holt.

I grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, with my parents and my younger sister, Brooke.

My parents were not cruel people.

That matters.

They weren’t monsters.

They didn’t wake up each morning and deliberately decide to hurt me.

But for as long as I can remember, the family tilted in one direction.

Toward Brooke.

Always Brooke.

Not through one dramatic act.

Through hundreds of small choices.

When I turned sixteen, Brooke decided she wanted the same birthday cake I had chosen.

So my dinner became a joint celebration.

Mom said it made sense.

Dad said birthdays weren’t a big deal anyway.

I said,

“Fine.”

When I graduated near the top of my high-school class, my parents left the ceremony before my name was called because fourteen-year-old Brooke wanted to get to a pool party.

Later Mom said,

“We saw you in the procession. We thought that was basically the same thing.”

I said,

“Fine.”

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