Chapter 3 - The Sister Who Learned to Smile With Knives
Celia and I had not always been enemies.
When we were children, she was the one who taught me how to braid my hair, how to lie to Dad when I broke a vase, and how to walk into school with my chin up after boys called me “soldier girl” because I spent weekends doing obstacle courses instead of sleepovers.
She was beautiful even then, but not cruel.
Cruelty came later, after she discovered our father rewarded appearances more than truth.
Celia learned to host, charm, flatter, and cut without leaving marks. She became the public daughter. The graceful one. The one who stayed near the foundation, near Dad, near donors, near power.
I became the absent one.
The daughter in uniform.
Useful when a patriotic speech needed a face. Embarrassing when that face came back with dirt on it.
For years, Celia turned my service into her stage decoration. She introduced me at galas as “our warrior” and “our brave Elise” when I was clean, rested, and wearing something that photographed well. But if I came home exhausted, if I avoided cameras, if I questioned expenses, suddenly I was unstable. Difficult. Traumatized. Unfit to understand civilian responsibility.
That word—unstable—had been appearing more often.
In texts.
In conversations.
In the way donors looked at me with soft concern before I even spoke.
The night before the gala, Celia texted:
Dad expects you there.
Donors are asking.
Don’t embarrass us tonight.
I should have ignored it.
But my mother’s name was on the banner.
So I went.
May you like
Not as their decoration.
As the only Warren who still remembered what the foundation was supposed to be.
