The house itself was beautiful — a sprawling colonial in a nice Tennessee suburb, with black shutters and a porch swing where my mother and Amber would often sit in the evenings, their laughter drifting through the open windows. There was usually a Titans game on somewhere in the background, country music floating from a neighbor’s yard, the American flag hanging neatly from our front porch like the final touch on a picture-perfect Southern family.
Inside, the walls were a gallery of Amber’s life.
Amber’s first steps. Amber’s first toothy grin. Amber on the shoulders of my father at a Titans game. Amber in a tiara as homecoming princess.
The one photo of me on the mantle was a small 5×7 frame tucked behind a much larger portrait of Amber on horseback. In it, I was about seven, wearing a plain yellow dress, standing slightly to the side. It was a metaphor I understood long before I had the words for it.
My father, Charles Parker, was a man who measured the world in square footage and return on investment. He was a successful real estate developer, and he applied the principles of his business to his family.
Amber was a prime piece of real estate, a beachfront property with endless potential for appreciation. She was beautiful, charming, and effortlessly social — all qualities he valued. He would invest in her endlessly: the best dance lessons, a private tennis coach, a wardrobe of clothes that cost more than my textbooks for an entire semester of college. His affection was a transaction. He would give her the world, and in return, she would be the sparkling, successful daughter who reflected well on him.
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