Over the next year, I became a quiet guardian. My sister, Maria—Leo’s mom—was drowning. She smiled with her teeth, never her eyes. At family dinners, everyone praised her for “holding it together.” But I noticed she stopped eating. I noticed she clutched her coffee mug like a life raft.

“With the money I’ve saved for twenty years,” I said. “I don’t travel. I don’t have a family of my own. I don’t buy new cars. I’ve been invisible, remember? No one asks me to chip in for parties. No one expects gifts. I’ve been quietly, invisibly saving.”

Not in a sci-fi, superpower kind of way. In a family way. At every birthday party, I was the aunt who brought the store-bought cake. At every wedding, I was the one seated near the kitchen, close to the restrooms. My voice was the one that got politely talked over. My opinions were “sweet” but irrelevant.

It took three tries for anyone to notice.