Chapter 2 - Rebecca Was Always Supposed to Go First
Rebecca is three years older than I am.
In most families, that is:
a fact.
In ours, it was:
a hierarchy.
My mother believed strongly in birth order.
Not academically.
Morally.
Rebecca:
first daughter.
First driver’s license.
First graduation.
First wedding.
First house.
First baby.
I was:
second.
Helen would never have described me as less loved.
She would have been offended by the suggestion.
But she constantly used language like:
“Let Rebecca have her moment.”
“Your sister goes first.”
“You’ll get your turn.”
When we were children, it meant:
Rebecca opened Christmas gifts first.
Rebecca chose the restaurant on shared birthday celebrations.
Rebecca sat beside Mom at formal dinners.
Small things.
Then adulthood made the pattern stranger.
When I got engaged six months after Rebecca did, my mother asked:
“You’re not planning to marry before her, are you?”
I laughed.
She didn’t.
So my fiancé—later my husband, Daniel—and I waited.
Five months.
Not a tragedy.
We were not in a hurry.
Rebecca never asked:
us
to wait.
That detail mattered.
After her wedding, Rebecca pulled me aside.
“Did Mom make you move your date?”
I lied.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“You’re terrible at lying.”
Then apologized.
For something she had not done.
That was another family tradition.
Helen created rules.
Rebecca felt guilty for benefiting from them.
I pretended not to resent them.
Dad called that:
May you like
peace.
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