Ila is two years older than me, which in my family has always been treated like she arrived first and therefore deserved more. Nobody put it on a plaque. They didn’t need to.
When we were kids, my parents gave us pocket money. Ila spent hers before it could get comfortable in her hand—candy, trinkets, anything shiny enough to feel like a win. Then she’d sweep into the kitchen with her purchase like she was showing my mom proof of good taste.
My mom loved it.
“Look at you,” she’d say. “You have such an eye.”
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