Chapter 2 - Her Name Gone
The gala was supposed to be Paige’s perfect night.
That was what the invitation said.
An evening celebrating Paige Adams and the future of the Adams Foundation for Architectural Excellence.
Cream stationery.
Gold embossing.
A country-club ballroom in Greenwich.
A champagne reception.
A three-course dinner.
A donor announcement.
A presentation of Paige’s “visionary architectural portfolio.”
Catherine read the invitation alone in her studio apartment in New Haven, standing barefoot beside a drafting table that had belonged to her grandfather before Richard sold the old house and pretended nobody wanted the furniture.
The invitation had not been mailed to her.
That would have required courtesy.
It was forwarded by mistake from one of Richard’s assistants who still had Catherine in the family contact list under “C. Adams — miscellaneous.”
Miscellaneous.
That word made her laugh so hard she cried.
She almost deleted the email.
Then she saw the attachment.
Preview Portfolio: Paige Adams Graduate Showcase.
Catherine opened it.
For ten seconds, she did not understand what she was seeing.
Then her body went cold.
Sheet one.
Her courthouse renovation concept.
Sheet two.
Her adaptive reuse model for the abandoned textile mill in Bridgeport.
Sheet three.
Her low-income housing courtyard design based on natural winter light.
Sheet four.
Her thesis section drawing.
Her line weights.
Her annotations removed.
Her color palette softened.
Her name gone.
Paige’s name in its place.
Catherine sat down before her knees could fail.
The room around her faded.
The drafting lamp.
The coffee gone cold.
The pinned sketches on the wall.
The half-built model beside the window.
All of it blurred behind one terrible truth:
Her sister had stolen her work.
Not a sketch.
Not an idea.
Not inspiration.
Her portfolio.
Years of work.
Three scholarships.
Two unpaid internships.
A thesis that had nearly broken her from exhaustion.
A body of work she had built while the Adams family told donors Paige was the creative one, the elegant one, the public one, the future.
Catherine had always been the other one.
The mistake.
Lorraine said it first when Catherine was nine.
Not to Catherine directly.
That would have been too honest.
She said it on the phone in the upstairs hallway, assuming Catherine was asleep.
“Paige was planned. Catherine happened. There’s a difference.”
Catherine sat on the stairs in a nightgown, holding a stuffed fox by one leg, learning that some children are born into rooms where love already has a seating chart.
Paige sat at the center.
Catherine at the edge.
When Paige won a school art prize, Lorraine framed the certificate.
When Catherine won a statewide design competition at fourteen, Richard said, “That’s nice. But do not make architecture your whole personality.”
When Paige cried before a piano recital, everyone rearranged their day.
When Catherine broke her wrist falling off a ladder while helping repair the old greenhouse, Lorraine said, “You always make practical things dramatic.”
Paige received tutors.
Catherine received expectations.
Paige got new dresses.
Catherine got corrected posture.
Paige had family friends ask about her dreams.
Catherine had family friends ask whether she was “still doing little buildings.”
It would have been easier if Paige were talentless.
May you like
She was not.
That made everything more complicated.
