The air in the backyard smelled of lighter fluid, charred meat, and the cloying, synthetic sweetness of my sister-in-law’s cheap perfume. It was the Fourth of July, a day of national pride, yet I felt like a prisoner of war in my own brother’s home.
My name is Evelyn Vance. To the neighbors swarming the patio, holding red solo cups and laughing too loudly, I was simply “Mark’s sister.” The sad, unemployed single mother who had moved into the guest room three months ago. The woman who wore stained t-shirts and flinched at loud noises. The disgrace.
I stood by the grill, flipping burgers with a mechanical rhythm. My brother, Mark, was inside watching the game, leaving me to serve his guests. That was the arrangement. They gave me a roof; I gave them servitude and silence.
“Hey, freeloaders don’t get a beer break,” a voice shrilled from behind me.
I didn’t turn. I knew that voice. It was Sarah, my brother’s wife and the self-appointed queen of this suburban cul-de-sac. She was a woman who wielded her husband’s paycheck like a weapon and her father’s badge like a shield.
“I’m just clearing the smoke, Sarah,” I said, my voice low. I kept my eyes on the patties sizzling on the grate. Discipline. That’s what I told myself. Maintain discipline.
“Well, hurry up. My dad is coming soon, and he likes his steak medium-rare. Don’t ruin it like you ruined your career.”
