I sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor of my parents’ Portland living room, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and the artificial pine scent of Christmas morning, watching my sister Chelsea twirl a set of BMW keys around her manicured fingers. The metal catches the twinkling lights from the tree as she pirouettes like a teenager instead of a thirty-two-year-old woman. “I can’t believe it,” she squeals, bouncing on her toes.
“My own Beamer!”
Dad beams at her with unfiltered pride. Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin like she’s witnessing a miracle. The car sits in the driveway, a glossy white testament to parental devotion, complete with an enormous red bow that probably cost more than my entire Christmas.
I know this because my entire Christmas is sitting in my lap. It’s a plastic piggy bank shaped like a cartoon character from a children’s show I outgrew twenty-five years ago. The price tag they forgot to remove reads $1.99.
“Open it,” Mom urges, gesturing toward the rubber stopper on the bottom. My fingers feel numb as I comply. Two crisp one-dollar bills flutter out onto the wrapping paper.
“It’s the start of your future home fund, honey,” Dad announces with a wave of his hand. “You’re always so responsible with money. Not like some people.” He winks at Chelsea, who pretends to look offended, and the two of them laugh together while I sit there holding two dollars.
Mom fills the silence. “Chelsea needs reliable transportation for her new graphic design clients. Those artsy types expect a certain image, you know?”
Chelsea drops onto the couch beside me, her expensive perfume clouding the air, and pats my knee with patronizing gentleness.
“Don’t worry, sis, I’ll drive you around whenever you need. Your little Toyota must be on its last legs by now.”
The Toyota that carried me through seven hours of mountain passes yesterday. The Toyota I paid off myself three years ago.
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