On the night of her graduation, Lucía stood in a hotel ballroom clutching her diploma against her chest while her father raised a glass in front of seventy guests.
Then, laughing, he said,
“Maybe one day she’ll finally find something she can do nearly as well as her sister.”
The dinner was being held in an elegant old hotel in central Madrid, already decorated for Christmas.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead.
A massive tree glittered with red ornaments.
White tablecloths covered the tables, and champagne glasses sparkled under the lights.
Lucíawas twenty-three and still wearing her dark blue graduation gown.
She had dreamed about that day for years.
Not because she wanted an expensive party.
What she wanted was much smaller.
Just once, she wanted her parents to look at her and seem genuinely proud.
But that place had always belonged to Clara.
Her older sister.
Clara was the brilliant one.
The disciplined one.
The daughter who won science competitions and received applause at every family dinner.
Lucía was “the creative one.”
And whenever her mother used that phrase, it
somehow sounded less like praise and more like an apology.
When Lucía won an illustration contest in school, the drawing ended up folded away in a drawer.
When Clara earned a scholarship, her parents organized a dinner and invited half the family.
Still, Lucía never hated her sister.
In fact, Clara was often the only person who noticed how unfair things could be.
When they were children, Clara sometimes slipped chocolate into Lucía’s room or quietly told her that her artwork was good, even when their parents barely acknowledged it.
So when their father announced that evening that Clara had been accepted into a prestigious biomedical research program, Lucía applauded sincerely.
Then came the second half of his toast.
“And Lucía
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