Canvas of Rebirth Chapter 2

It was past midnight when I finally walked home.

The motion-sensor light flickered on as I opened the door.

On the dining table sat the remnants of their takeout.

Next to it was a small container left for me.

I opened it. The leftover casserole was packed with onions.

For seventeen years, they still put onions in my food—knowing I hated them—and lectured me about being a picky eater.

But I loved asparagus. Maya hated it. So asparagus was never allowed in the house.

I dropped my backpack and sat in the dark living room.

Moonlight caught the polished surface of Maya's piano trophies, making them gleam.

When I was little, I begged to take painting classes.

Mom just sighed. "Mia, do you know how expensive art supplies are? Money doesn't grow on trees."

A year later, Maya saw someone playing the piano on TV and threw a tantrum because she wanted to do it too.

Our parents instantly took out a loan and spent ten thousand dollars on a baby grand.

If Maya absentmindedly hit a few keys, my parents showered her with praise.

When Maya cried about not placing in local competitions, my parents secretly donated to the organizers to ensure she got a medal.

The day she won, she shoved the trophy in my face, beaming. "See? I told you I was a prodigy!"

I couldn't smile. I couldn't force a congratulations.

Mom kicked me under the table, whispering, "Don't ruin the mood."

To this day, my art supplies consisted of mechanical pencils and printer paper.

My drawings, much like my life, were entirely in grayscale.

I often stared at that dust-gathering piano, wondering if that ten thousand dollars would have bought me a lifetime of canvases.

The moonlight shifted to our family photo wall.

In every portrait, Maya stood dead center, my parents leaning toward her.

I was always on the far edge, practically out of frame.

But those were the pictures I cherished, because they were the only ones that actually included me.

The rest were snaps from their international vacations.

The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the London Eye.

I had asked to go once. I was firmly rejected.

"You're the older sister," Dad had said. "You need to be responsible and watch the house."

"We'll take you next time," Mom promised. "We'll take turns."

"We're identical twins anyway," Maya had chimed in. "Me going is basically you going."

I waited for years for my "turn." It never came.

Eventually, I stopped asking.

I stopped wondering why it mattered that I was the older twin when we were born minutes apart.

I finally realized the truth.

It wasn't about birth order. They just loved their other child.

Not me.