My sister Rachel had always turned everything into a competition.

When we were girls, if I brought home a drawing, she’d put hers beside it and ask Mom, “Which one do you like better?”“Both,” Mom would say.“That’s not an answer,” Rachel would insist, already studying mine.

If I joined a school club, she’d sign up the next week. If I bought a new jacket, she’d ask where I got it, then find one she liked more. For years, I thought she was simply trying to keep up.

Eventually, I stopped telling her about things before she could turn them into another contest.

Then I met Michael.At our first  family dinner together, Rachel watched him help me carry plates.

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“Where did you find him?” she asked. “He’s handsome, polite, and he helps without being asked.”

“He was at the grocery store,” I said. “I offered him a basket.”

She laughed but kept watching him. “Seriously, Sadie. I’m jealous. I wish I had a husband like yours.”“You haven’t even met your husband yet,” Dad teased.

“Maybe I’m setting my standards,” she replied.

I rolled my eyes, and everyone laughed. I told myself it was just Rachel being Rachel, wanting whatever I had because I’d had it first.

When she met Tom, I was relieved.

He was warm and patient, the kind of man who listened carefully and remembered what she told him. Rachel seemed happy. They married, and a year later, Michael and I drove to their house for their  anniversary celebration.By then, Michael and I had been married ten years. We had two children, a home filled with school bags and mismatched socks, and the life I’d once hoped for.

I thought Rachel had finally found happiness of her own.

Tom opened the door before we could knock. “You made it. Rachel’s been checking the window every five minutes.”

“Only because I wanted the food to stay warm,” Rachel called from the dining room.She kissed my cheek, then turned toward Michael. “You look handsome. Did Sadie pick that shirt?”

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“She has good taste,” he said.

Rachel laughed as though he’d said something especially charming. Tom glanced at her before leading us to the table.

Dinner started pleasantly. We talked about our children, Tom’s job, and the meal Rachel had spent the afternoon preparing.

But every time Michael spoke, Rachel turned toward him. She asked his opinion about the wine, laughed at his stories, and barely acknowledged Tom whenever he tried to join the conversation.

When we sat down, Michael pulled out Rachel’s chair. She looked up at him.

“If I’d met you first, I might have picked a different husband.”