He Gave Her The Best So I Left Him With Nothing Chapter 04
Marguerite and I had our birthday dinner at the Chicago Country Club.
When I pushed open the door to the private dining room, our family and friends were already seated around a long table with Marguerite at its center. She had just won a prestigious young physician’s award and was glowing, the undisputed pride of the family.
I took the empty seat at the far end of the table.
“Sadie, you don’t look well,” my mother remarked, her voice edged with impatience. “On a day like today, the least you could do is not look so miserable.”
I said nothing.
Halfway through dinner, Cormac arrived carrying an elegant cake box, a proper smile fixed on his face. He’d ordered only one cake, from Marguerite’s favorite French patisserie.
“It’s simpler this way,” he said. “One is enough.”
The cake was set in the middle of the table. Red velvet — Marguerite’s favorite. Everyone there knew I was allergic to artificial red dye, that it brought me out in hives, but not one of them seemed to think it mattered.
Cormac lifted a “Birthday Princess” tiara from the box, walked over to Marguerite, and set it on her head himself.
“Make a wish, Marguerite.”
His voice was gentle.
The whole family broke into applause, every eye fixed on Marguerite as she clasped her hands and closed her eyes.
I watched it all — the tiara that should have been for both of us, the cake I couldn’t eat a single bite of — and after more than twenty years, I finally couldn’t swallow it anymore.
“Cormac.”
My voice wasn’t loud, but he heard it.
He turned, a faint crease forming between his brows as his smile faded.
“Why is there only one cake?” I looked him in the eye. “Why am I always last?”
The table fell silent.
Cormac’s face darkened, his voice already tinged with irritation. “Sadie, it’s always been this way. Don’t make a scene.”
“Exactly, Sadie,” my mother cut in, her tone sharp as a knife. “Your sister won an award. She’s the pride of this family. Of course she comes first. What is there even to ask?”
Her gaze swept over me, and she smiled with open contempt.
“If you can turn that little hobby of yours with junk wood into something that lands you on the cover of Forbes, then you can blow out the candles first.”
A ripple of laughter went around the table.
That “junk wood business” was the antique restoration work I poured my soul into, the one thing that made me feel like I had any worth at all. To them, it was just a cheap joke.
I stood there, frozen, the words dying in my throat.
The moment passed. No one looked at me again.
My family turned back to Marguerite and launched into a loud chorus of “Happy Birthday.” The applause and laughter were all for her. No one spared me a second glance.
By the time they finally remembered me, the candles had nearly burned down, wax dripping onto the white frosting.
“Hurry up, Sadie. Your turn.”
Cormac’s prompt was perfunctory, just another box to check.
I stared at the tiny, guttering flames and suddenly had no desire to make a wish.
“We’ll make it up to you next year,” Cormac said lightly when I didn’t move. He waved a hand and blew out the last of the candles himself. “It’s the same every year, anyway.”
Yes. Every year, it was the same.
For over twenty years, my birthday wish had always been deferred to “next year.” A next year that never came.
I looked down at my clean, empty plate, then at the large, perfect slice of red velvet in front of Marguerite. I had nothing left to say.
This is what happens to the child who isn’t bright enough. You get overlooked. So completely, it’s as if you were never even there.
