Friday. The day everyone pretended to love their jobs a little more, just to make it to the weekend. For Sarah, it also meant dinner at her mother's house—a weekly event she approached with a mix of anticipation and dread.

Finishing work a bit earlier than usual, Sarah decided to take advantage of the pleasant weather. She stepped out onto the tree-lined streets of Oak Park, where the crisp early fall air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant chimney smoke. The neighborhood's historic brick buildings, adorned with ornate cornices and bay windows, stood as a testament to its rich architectural heritage, including numerous designs by Frank Lloyd Wright. Along Lake Street, the heart of Oak Park's commercial district, independent boutiques and cozy cafes buzzed with activity, their storefronts decorated with autumnal displays. As she made her way from the train station, the golden light filtered through the canopy of amber and crimson leaves, casting dappled shadows on the sidewalk and evoking a sense of nostalgic warmth. The recent rains had washed the streets clean, leaving behind a freshness that made every color seem more vibrant. Sarah took a deep breath, savoring the moment, and felt a renewed appreciation for the charming neighborhood she called home. 

Remember when autumn meant collecting acorns and kicking through piles of leaves? Now it just means more layers and earlier sunsets.

She chuckled to herself, the thought of childhood antics with Kelsie and Mrs. Brown, their neighbor, bringing a smile to her face.

Arriving at her childhood home, Sarah was immediately greeted by the familiar, and somewhat concerning, scent wafting from the kitchen. Whatever her mother had attempted to cook this time was anyone's guess.

The dining table was set with two plates, a bottle of rosé, and something that vaguely resembled chicken. The smell, however, suggested a more...fishy origin.

"Sarah! There you are!" Margerie beamed, enveloping her in a hug that was a tad too enthusiastic. "Come, sit! I made dinner. And look—I opened a nice bottle of rosé for us!”

Of course, she had. Sarah's mother didn’t recognize any other type of wine. Once, it had been quirky, maybe even endearing. Now, it was just… tragic. For the first time this week, Sarah didn’t feel like drinking.

Margerie blinked, processing this information. "What?! What happened? Was Kelsie safe?"

“Some pipes burst, flooded the whole floor, one guy broke both of his legs, the other one has some spine issue…” Sarah wasn’t sure about the details.

“Well, this sounds horrible! I hope they recover soon. Still, Kelsie going on this trip is something!”.

"Sure, Mom. Something," Sarah muttered, poking at her plate.

“Anyways, they are even paying for all her expenses! Isn’t that just wonderful?”  — her mother continued like she didn’t hear Sarah’s last comments.

"Yes, Mom, that’s how work trip usually work, the company pays your expenses… And they wouldn’t be if I hadn’t made her go back to the office to pick up the company credit card," she replied, moving the food around her plate with the fork.

"You’ve always been such a good big sister!" Margerie cooed in that saccharine, patronizing voice that sent chills down Sarah’s spine.

Sarah had never understood why their mother treated her and Kelsie so differently. Kelsie was the golden child, the baby who could do no wrong. Sarah, on the other hand, had been labeled "the responsible one" before she even knew how to tie her own shoes. Four years apart, and yet from the moment Sarah turned five, she was expected to be "the older one," the one who had to look after Kelsie, sacrifice for Kelsie, and clean up Kelsie’s messes.

At least she had memories of their dad. He had left when she was six, but before that, he had been the best part of her world. He could cook (God, could he cook—especially compared to her mother), he painted, and he played the guitar. Sarah had no talent for music, but she had always adored drawing. Maybe that’s where her love for interior design had started—not that she’d ever had the chance to pursue it.

Margerie, of course, never shut up about their father leaving, but somehow, she had managed to tell the story without ever providing actual details. Why did he leave? What really happened? People don’t just get up and walk out on their families out of nowhere. But Margerie had always been so dramatic about it that neither Sarah nor Kelsie had ever dared to ask for the full story.

Margerie’s voice snapped Sarah back to the present. "My baby girl is all grown up now! Living with her partner, has a prestigious job, traveling abroad—"

Sarah nearly choked on her rosé — Margerie didn’t know about the breakup! Of course, she didn’t. Kelsie wouldn’t have told her before the trip not to get into all the drama. And it wasn’t Sarah’s place to break the news, but listening to Margerie gush about Kelsie’s perfect life was painful.

As if on cue, the conversation shifted to Sarah’s love life. Or lack thereof.

"So," Margerie said, swirling her wine, "have you been seeing anyone?"

"No, Mom, I haven’t. Not lately."

"Not anyone? Not guys, or… girls?"

Sarah nearly dropped her fork. "No, ‘not anyone’ usually includes all genders, Mom."

Margerie raised her hands in mock innocence. "I’m just asking because there was that girl you went out with for a while, and I had no idea!"

"Yeah, because when I told you about my first girlfriend, you fake fainted and didn’t speak to me for six months—sending Kelsie to my apartment with Bible brochures."

Margerie sighed. "I know, I know, dear… I’m just asking."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Well, no, there hasn’t been anyone because I don’t have time for a relationship! Between work and… work, I’m always… so drained."

Margerie took a slow sip of rosé, eyeing her daughter. "Maybe you should stop drinking so much? I don’t know…Try exercising?"

Sarah blinked. "Says the rosé queen. Can we not do this? How much do you need for the bills this month?"

She didn’t mean for it to sound harsh, but she wanted the conversation to be over. And, if she was being honest, she knew money was the only real leverage she had over her mother.

Margerie sighed but provided the amount, and Sarah transferred the money without another word. The rest of the evening passed in the usual cycle of passive-aggressive comments, forced small talk, and Sarah pretending to enjoy whatever monstrosity was on her plate.

By the time she left, Sarah felt like a squeezed lemon. As she trudged home, her phone buzzed with a message from her sister. 

Kelsie: "The event is fabulous, the food is mind-blowing, and the boys are cuuuute!" 

Sarah's jaw tightened. She glanced at her reflection in a store window—her usually lively dark-brown wavy hair looked dull and slightly disheveled, her eyes were tired, a frown seemed permanently etched on her forehead, and she exuded an overall aura of exhaustion. The contrast between Kelsie's exuberant update and her own weary appearance deepened her sense of discontent. 

First sober night in… I can’t remember how long. Should I do yoga next?

She snorted. Nah, that’s crazy.

Back at home, Sarah tossed and turned under her duvet, the events of the evening playing on a never-ending loop in her head. Her mother’s comments about drinking, about her non-existent love life, and Kelsie's 'amazing' job were still buzzing around like mosquitoes she couldn’t swat away. And once you’ve looked at yourself in a store window and thought, When did it all go wrong?, well, sleep doesn’t exactly come rushing in.

In search of distraction, she reached for her phone and opened social media app. 

Bad idea. 

First clip: Justin with a group of people raising glasses.

Second: Justin laughing with a girl, his hand on her lower back in that very particular way.

Third: a grainy video of the two of them making out in the corner, clearly unaware—or unbothered—that someone was filming.

“The bastard,” Sarah muttered under her breath.

Mr. Socks, curled up at her feet, lifted his head and tilted his ears forward.

“Not you, baby. You’re perfect,” she whispered, reaching to scratch behind his ear.

She stared at the screen for a long second, then—without really thinking—typed a reply to the story and hit send.

Sarah: “Who’s the ho?”

She didn’t expect an answer. It was nearly 2 a.m. Who checks their messages at a wedding that’s clearly still in full swing?

Apparently, Little-Shit-Justin does.

Justin: “Wow. How anti-feminist of you to slut-shame a woman just for having fun and being herself.”

Sarah gagged. “Ugh, spare me the woke white boy routine,” she muttered.

Her fingers flew over the screen.

Sarah: “What woman? I was talking about you. You’re the ho. It hasn’t even been a week since you broke up with Kelsie. Her stuff is still at your place. And you’re already cuddling up to someone else at a wedding you were supposed to attend together?”

Justin: “Well it ain’t my fault Kelsie isn’t here! She chose her dumb job over me.”

Sarah: “She chose it over the wedding, not over YOU. And don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Justin: “You know what, Sarah? Stay out of it.”

Sarah: “That’s what I thought.”

She dropped her phone on the comforter, but there was no putting the anger back in its box. She was wide awake now. Her pulse was racing, and a strange sense of determination lit up her insides like neon.

Okay, Justin. Let’s take a little look under the hood.

It didn’t take long. Justin’s company had a social media page. And—ah, yes—there he was in a carousel of smiling employees from a corporate training session back in spring. Fourth picture in: the same girl from the wedding, looking far too cozy next to him.

Name: Monica. A new hire. Sarah clicked through to Monica’s page, which, mercifully, wasn’t private.

Monica liked hiking. And cocktails. And Justin.

Her feed painted a very specific picture. Cute couple pics at the Lincoln Park Conservatory, wine nights, brunch selfies with captions like “This one’s a keeper ❤️”—going back six months.

Six. Months.

Sarah stared at the screen, jaw slack.

She slowly put her phone down, the room suddenly too quiet. Mr. Socks twitched his paw in his sleep, unbothered by human drama.

Sarah, however, was very much bothered.

And she wasn't done.

Sarah grabbed her laptop from the nightstand and sat cross-legged on her bed, the blue glow illuminating her face as she delved into the digital abyss of relationship advice forums. Her search history was a tapestry of concern: "How to tell your sister her boyfriend is cheating," "Signs of infidelity," "Confronting a cheater on social media." Each click led her deeper into a labyrinth of opinions, cautionary tales, and the occasional horror story.

One thread caught her attention—a user detailing how they had informed their sibling about a partner's infidelity, only to be met with denial and strained family ties. Another recounted a tale where silence led to prolonged heartbreak when the truth inevitably surfaced. The consensus was as clear as mud.

Sarah leaned back against her headboard, exhaling a sigh that seemed to originate from her very soul. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on her chest. Kelsie was thousands of miles away, blissfully unaware, her messages filled with excitement about Berlin and the charming strangers who had been flirting with her. The irony wasn't lost on Sarah.

"Mr. Socks," she addressed the feline sprawled at the foot of her bed, "how does one tell their sister that her boyfriend is a cheating, lying, two-timing piece of—"

Mr. Socks responded with a languid stretch, his indifference both comforting and infuriating.

Sarah knew she couldn't blurt it out over a casual text or a hasty phone call. This revelation required tact, timing, and undeniable proof. She envisioned the conversation, anticipating Kelsie's reactions—a rollercoaster of disbelief, anger, sorrow, and perhaps, misplaced guilt. The last thing Sarah wanted was for her sister to spiral into self-recrimination, wondering how she had missed the signs over six months.

Determined, Sarah began formulating a plan. First, she would compile the evidence—screenshots of Justin's social media indiscretions, timestamps, any damning detail that painted the full picture. Then, she would wait for Kelsie's return, choosing a moment when they could sit down face-to-face, away from distractions and the prying eyes of their mother.

She rehearsed the dialogue in her mind:

"Kelsie, there's something important we need to discuss. It's about Justin. I've come across some information that I believe you should know."

Simple. Direct. Compassionate.

As the first light of dawn crept through her curtains, Sarah felt a semblance of resolve. She would be the sister Kelsie needed, the one who faced the uncomfortable truths head-on, ensuring that Kelsie had the support and clarity to navigate the storm ahead.

With a final glance at Mr. Socks, who now lay curled in a purring ball of contentment, Sarah whispered, "We've got this."

And as she drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams were a mosaic of fractured images—wedding scenes, social media feeds, and the unwavering hope that, in the end, sisterhood would prevail.