Chapter 2: Camille Took the Credit
Three weeks before the anniversary party, Camille decided she was the co-host.
She didn't ask me.
She announced it in the family group chat.
“I'm getting so excited about Mom and Dad's anniversary! I've got a few ideas to make it extra special.””
I was at work when the messages started arriving.
Camille sent pictures of elaborate flower arrangements, champagne towers, and gold table decorations.
Then she tagged me.
“Liv, can you coordinate these with the venue?””
I stared at the message.
The original decorations had already been selected and approved. The restaurant had confirmed the arrangements, and I had paid the deposit based on a specific budget.
I called her that evening.
“Camille, what are you planning to change?””
“Nothing major,” she said breezily.
“Just making it more memorable.””
“The flowers are already ordered.””
“Then change them.””
“There's a price difference.””
“It's Mom and Dad's fortieth anniversary, Liv. We can't make it look cheap.””
I closed my eyes.
The original flowers weren't cheap. They were tasteful, elegant, and exactly what my mother had requested.
But arguing with Camille about money was always exhausting.
She had a talent for making reasonable limits sound like personal failures.
“I'll check with the florist,” I said.
“Perfect. I knew you'd handle it.””
Before I could respond, she added another request.
“Oh, and I've invited a few more people. Some of my friends who know Mom and Dad from the neighborhood.””
“How many is a few?””
“Maybe eight.””
“Camille, the room has a capacity limit, and the menu is based on the confirmed guest count.””
“Then ask them to make more food.””
I rubbed my forehead.
“That isn't how the reservation works.””
“Honestly, Liv, you make everything so complicated.””
She said it with a little laugh, as if I were being unreasonable by explaining the practical consequences of her decisions.
I called Daniel at Alderwood the following morning.
He adjusted the guest count, explained the additional charges, and sent me a revised estimate.
I approved it.
I paid the extra amount.
I confirmed the upgraded flowers.
I arranged the additional champagne.
And when the restaurant needed the final seating plan, I sent it over after spending nearly two hours working out how to accommodate everyone.
I thought that would be the end of it.
Then Camille sent me a screenshot of a draft social media post.
“Getting everything ready for Mom and Dad's big night!”” it read.
“Forty years of love deserve something unforgettable. I've been working so hard to make this celebration perfect.””
There was a picture of the Hearthstone room.
The flowers were mine.
The reservation was mine.
The entire arrangement was mine.
But Camille's name appeared beneath the words.
I called her immediately.
“Why are you posting that you're planning the party?””
There was a pause.
“Because I'm helping.””
“You've been sending me requests. I've been coordinating everything.””
“Oh, my God, Olivia. Do we really need to keep score?””
“I'm not keeping score. I'm asking you not to take credit for something you didn't organize.””
Her voice hardened.
“You know what your problem is? You always need everyone to acknowledge how much you do.””
I looked at the revised invoice open on my computer.
The additional flowers alone had cost more than I had originally planned to spend.
“No,” I said quietly.
“I just don't want you pretending you did all of it.””
Camille laughed without humor.
“Fine. Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone knows you're the logistics department.””
She hung up.
I should have withdrawn my help then.
I should have called my mother and explained what had happened.
Instead, I told myself that the important thing was the anniversary, not the credit.
That was the excuse I had used since childhood.
And Camille knew it.
The next few days became a parade of small humiliations.
My mother called to ask whether I had approved the extra champagne Camille wanted.
She didn't ask whether I could afford it.
She asked whether I had approved it.
When I mentioned that the additional charges were adding up, she sighed.
“Olivia, please don't turn your father's anniversary into a budget discussion.””
“I'm not. I'm just letting you know what the changes cost.””
“Your sister is trying to make this special. You could be more supportive.””
I nearly laughed.
Supportive.
That was the word they used when they wanted me to absorb the consequences of someone else's decisions without complaining.
I agreed to the champagne.
I agreed to the revised flowers.
I confirmed the seating plan.
Then I made one small mistake.
I assumed that if I continued being generous, someone might eventually be generous toward me.
The seating plan arrived in my inbox four days before the party.
I opened it during lunch.
My parents had the best table beside the fireplace.
Camille was seated beside them, with her husband and several guests she had invited.
The older relatives occupied the tables near the windows.
Everyone had a place.
Everyone except me.
I checked the plan again, wondering if there had been a formatting error.
My name wasn't anywhere.
I called Camille.
“Where am I supposed to sit?””
She sounded distracted.
“Oh, you'll figure it out.””
“I'm not listed.””
“There's always room to move around.””
“Move around?””
“You know what I mean, Liv. You'll probably be helping Daniel and checking on the guests anyway.””
I stared at the seating chart.
“I booked a private dining room where I don't even have a chair.””
“Don't be dramatic.””
“Camille, I am the one organizing this.””
“And I'm the one making sure Mom and Dad have the celebration they deserve.””
She paused.
Then she said something that stayed with me.
“Besides, you don't care about that kind of attention. I do.””
She said it as if she were explaining a simple fact about our personalities.
Camille liked attention.
I liked helping.
Therefore, Camille deserved the spotlight, and I deserved to work behind it.
I could have told her she was wrong.
Instead, I called the restaurant and asked Daniel to add another chair.
He did.
I paid the additional charge.
When the anniversary weekend arrived, I pressed my red dress, wrapped the anniversary gift I had purchased for my parents, and placed my phone in my handbag.
I told myself I would enjoy the evening.
I would greet the guests.
I would raise a glass.
I would eat dinner.
I would sit in my chair.
And I would stop worrying about who received the credit.
Before leaving my apartment, I checked the reservation one last time.
My card was still attached to the booking.
The remaining balance would be processed after the event.
Everything was ready.
When I arrived at Alderwood, the Hearthstone room looked even better than I had imagined.
The candles glowed against the polished tables.
The ivory roses stood in elegant glass vases.
The fireplace cast a warm light across the room.
Daniel greeted me at the entrance.
“Miss Doyle, everything is set exactly as requested.””
“Thank you, Daniel. I appreciate all your help.””
He smiled.
“You've done a wonderful job organizing this.””
Those words should have made me happy.
Instead, they made my throat tighten.
A stranger had recognized the work my family refused to acknowledge.
I took a breath and entered the room.
My mother immediately called me over.
“Olivia, could you check whether the champagne is ready?””
Then Camille waved me toward the entrance.
“Liv, can you help Hannah with her coat?””
My father asked whether I had spoken to an older relative who hadn't arrived yet.
Within ten minutes, I had answered three questions, solved two small problems, and checked the dinner schedule.
Nobody asked how I was.
Nobody commented on my dress.
Nobody mentioned the effort that had gone into arranging the room.
Then Camille stepped into the center of the dining room with her phone raised.
“Everyone, look how beautiful everything turned out!””
Guests turned toward her.
She smiled for photographs beside the flowers I had ordered.
My mother stood proudly beside her.
And when the first wave of compliments came, Camille accepted every one.
“I wanted everything to feel perfect,” she said.
I stood near the doorway, holding my handbag.
For the first time that evening, I wondered what would happen if I stopped making everything perfect for them.
Then Camille tapped her glass.
May you like
She was about to give her toast.
And I knew exactly whose name everyone was going to hear.
