Not the one people mention first. Not the one whose name comes up in stories, in commendation, in comparisons that appear innocent but hit hard. That other one. One who listens more than she talks.
She picks up early the art of reading a space. When should one back off? Even if she is silently smoldering inside, when to let someone else shine. She is lacking nothing. It just seems as though attention flies her by as she is leaning lightly out of frame.
She grins at family meetings exactly when necessary. Should she fall, it is remembered. She is molded in methods nobody sees by that balance.
Here is what people miss, though.
She observes everything. The energy behind the praise. The quiet behind disillusionment. The minute flaws others miss.
In the way she appears for herself when nobody is observing. In the silent choice to stop shrinking just to ensure others' ease.
She remains their second daughter.
But to herself she is gradually developing something else.