My name is Savannah Brooks, and the day my family finally broke me began at my twin sister’s baby shower.

For most of my life, I had been trained to give in. If Brianna needed money, I helped. If she made a mistake, I stayed quiet.

If she wanted something that belonged to me, my mother believed it should become hers. Patricia Brooks never admitted she loved Brianna more, but everyone knew. When we were children in Charlotte, North Carolina, Brianna and I shared clothes, secrets, and dreams. I thought we were inseparable.

Only later did I understand that I had always been treated less like a sister and more like a safety net. Brianna was delicate. I was “strong.” That word sounded like praise until I realized it meant no one cared when I was hurt. By the time we were both eight months pregnant, I was expecting a daughter, and Brianna was expecting a son. Our parents acted as if it was a sweet miracle. But underneath the pink balloons and polite smiles at the country club, something rotten was waiting. I almost skipped the shower.

Still, I went, because some foolish part of me wanted to believe family could change. Halfway through the party, my mother pulled me aside near the gift table. Her smile vanished the second no one was looking.

“Your sister needs help.”

I already knew that tone.

“What kind of help?”