I always knew my sister, Charlotte, didn't care about me. But I never thought she'd throw me out onto the street two weeks after our father's funeral.

For as long as I could remember, it had been just the three of us, Dad, Charlotte, and me.

Well, mostly just Dad and me.

Charlotte, at 35 years old, had never truly been part of this family. She lived in our dad's house, but it was never her home. She was always out. Sometimes it was parties, or out with friends, or even just chasing the next "big thing," as she always said.

"I'm going to be great, Dawn," she said. "I'm meant for a bigger life. Not a tiny life where nobody knows who I am. You might understand it one day."

She treated our house like it was a crash pad, showing up only when she needed something, especially when she was low on money.

I, on the other hand, was 17 and had never known anything outside of these walls. I had been Dad's shadow, following him around the house, helping him with repairs, cooking dinner for us when he got home from work.

"Homecooked meals are the way to go, Dawn," he'd say. "It doesn't matter how tired you are, you should always make something for yourself."

"Do noodles from the packet count?" I asked.

All I remembered from that conversation was the way my father looked at me and laughed.

Growing up, I always wondered if Charlotte resented me. She was already eighteen when I was born. A legal adult with her whole life ahead of her. Meanwhile, I was just the baby that came after.

I was the surprise that my mom didn't even bother sticking around for. But my dad? He adored me.

"Dawn, you were the dawn of a new beginning, my love," he would say. "You were the biggest surprise of my life, and I welcomed you with everything I had."

Maybe that was part of it. Maybe that was why Charlotte behaved the way she did.

By the time I was old enough to really know her, Charlotte was already pulling away. She didn't see me as a sister, not really. More like an inconvenience in her life. A kid tagging along where I wasn't wanted.

She never read me bedtime stories or played games with me. When Dad took us out for ice cream, she barely looked up from her phone.

But I still thought, somehow, she cared.

That she'd be here when it mattered.

But I was so wrong.

And then Dad died. And everything in my life fell apart.

Two weeks after the funeral, we sat in the lawyer's office. Charlotte was dressed up, but she sat there, barely looking sad. Instead, she looked bored. If anything, she seemed like this was a waste of her time. She checked her nails as we waited for the reading of Dad's will.