The rhythm of the Johnson household, already skewed, began to falter even further. Robert Johnson, Carol and Amy's father, announced a new job opportunity, a significant promotion, but one that required him to spend most of his week in a different state. The news was met with Sarah's predictable enthusiasm for the increased income, and Amy's vague understanding that "Daddy will be gone more." For Carol, it was a subtle shift that quickly became a profound void. Robert's silent presence, once a faint, almost invisible buffer against Sarah's overt favoritism, was now entirely absent for days on end.
Carol's protective instincts towards Amy ran deep, a primal, unthinking response ingrained from their earliest days. She remembered, or rather, had been told, of a family gathering when they were barely toddlers. Amy, all dimples and soft curls, had been cooing in a playpen, drawing admiring glances from the adults. One of their cousins, a few months older, had toddled over, intent on snatching Amy's favorite plush rabbit. Before any adult could intervene, a tiny, determined Carol, who even then squirmed fiercely against being held, had launched herself at the offending cousin, a furious, wordless growl escaping her lips, her small fists flailing. The rabbit was saved, the cousin bewildered, and Carol, despite her ferocity, had immediately turned to pat Amy's head, as if to say, I've got you. Amy, oblivious, had simply smiled, her pretty face serene. Even then, Amy was the one who drew the light, Carol the one who guarded it.
With Robert gone, the already thin veneer of impartiality Sarah maintained dissolved completely. Carol found herself increasingly isolated, her quiet achievements met with even less acknowledgment. If Amy stumbled on a school project, Sarah would swoop in with lavish help, sometimes even subtly suggesting Carol "assist" her sister, effectively doing Amy's work for her. Carol, ever the protector, would comply, her fingers flying across the keyboard to finish Amy's essay, her mind untangling Amy's math problems. She saw it as her duty, an unspoken pact between twins, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of connection, even if it was one-sided. She believed, with the unwavering conviction of a child, that her loyalty would eventually be reciprocated, that beneath the layers of parental preference, Amy truly valued her.
One afternoon, a few weeks before their eleventh birthday, Aunt Clara, their mother's younger sister and a software engineer with a keen eye for talent, visited. She found Carol engrossed in a complex coding puzzle book, a gift from the library. "Remarkable, Carol," Aunt Clara had murmured, watching Carol's focused brow. "You have a real knack for this." Later, Aunt Clara pulled Sarah aside, and Carol overheard snippets about a "birthday gift" and "something to foster her interest." Sarah had smiled, nodding, and Carol's heart had swelled with a quiet hope. A laptop. A real laptop, just for her, to explore the digital worlds she'd only dreamed of.
But the hope was short-lived. A few days later, Sarah called Carol into the living room, her expression unusually serious. Amy was already there, beaming, clutching a glossy brochure for the "Little Miss Starlet" regional pageant. "Amy has a wonderful opportunity," Sarah began, her voice sweet but firm, "but it requires a significant investment in costumes and coaching. Your Aunt Clara was so generous, dear, but we've decided that Amy's pageant is a family priority right now. You understand, don't you? You're the bigger person, Carol. Family comes first." Carol's stomach dropped. The laptop. Her dream. "You won't mention this to Aunt Clara, will you?" Sarah added, her eyes narrowing slightly. "It would upset her to know we reallocated her gift. We don't want to cause any trouble, do we?" Carol looked at Amy, who was already practicing a confident pose, oblivious to the sacrifice being asked. The words "family comes first" echoed in Carol's ears, heavy with unspoken obligation. She nodded, her throat tight, a silent promise made for the love of a sister who didn't even know what she had taken.
One afternoon, Amy burst into Carol's room, tears streaming down her face. "Mom found out I failed my history test! She's going to ground me from dance for a month!" Amy wailed, clutching a crumpled paper. Carol's stomach clenched. History was Amy's weakest subject, but it was Carol's forte. "I can help you study," Carol offered immediately, her protective instincts kicking in. "We can go over everything tonight." Amy nodded, sniffling, then brightened. "Or," she began, a cunning glint in her eye, "you could just… write my extra credit report for me. You're so good at history, Mom would never know." Carol hesitated, a flicker of unease. It felt wrong. But Amy's pleading eyes, so similar to her own, were hard to resist. "Please, Carol? You're the only one who can help me." And Carol, ever the protector, agreed.
As the weeks turned into months, Carol's academic brilliance continued to flourish, almost in defiance of the emotional neglect. She spent hours in the local library, losing herself in complex equations and scientific theories, finding a sense of order and fairness that was absent at home. She started entering online coding challenges, her fingers dancing across the keyboard, the logic of programming a comforting escape. Each small victory, each problem solved, was a quiet, private triumph. But even as her own world expanded, a part of her remained tethered to Amy, always ready to step in, to shield, to protect. She rationalized the financial disparities she occasionally overheard—whispers of trust funds and investments specifically for Amy—as simply Amy needing more, being more delicate, more deserving of their parents' focused attention. Carol, after all, had her own quiet strengths, her own hidden world. She just didn't realize how much that world was about to be shaken.