out how to get rid of.
That weekend, we were supposed to travel to Chicago for Claire’s dance competition.
As usual, everything revolved around her.
Her costumes.
Her rehearsals.
Her schedule.
Her comfort.
My job was to carry the bags.
Mom and Dad walked through the station ahead of me, sipping coffee and discussing which restaurant they would visit after Claire’s performance.
Claire followed, scrolling through her phone.
Meanwhile, I struggled behind them with two heavy suitcases and a duffel bag hanging from my shoulder.
Nobody offered to help.
Nobody slowed down.
By the time we reached the platform, passengers were already lining up to board.
Then Mom stopped beside a vending machine.
She turned toward me with an unusually cheerful expression.
“Ethan, sweetheart, I think I left my red purse in the car. Would you go and get it?”
I glanced toward the train.
“Mom, they’re already boarding.”
Dad
