PARTIALITY
The engagement party was held on the rooftop of a high-end hotel restaurant overlooking the Main, booked by the bride’s family.
My family was given a table off to the side, and as usual, I was put “on logistics” — meaning stationed near the kitchen, overseeing the food service, arranging the tables, because, as my mother put it: “You’re good with your hands, you handle this properly, your brother and I need to greet the guests.”
I wore the plainest dress I owned, standing near the kitchen alongside the restaurant staff, tray of leftover plates in my hands, while soft jazz and laughter carried through the main hall, the Frankfurt skyline glowing behind the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Lukas, in a tailored suit, stood beside a radiant Sophie, receiving congratulations from both sides of the guest list — including a few of Sophie’s family’s business associates.
At one point he glanced toward me, saw me standing there, smirked, and turned to a friend, pitching his voice just loud enough for a few nearby guests to catch: “My sister’s a natural at this kind of thing.
Been doing it since she was a kid.”
His friend laughed along, none the wiser.
I stood there, gripping the tray, a rope pulling tight across my chest.
Not simple anger — something emptier than that, as though twenty-eight years of effort had never once been seen, and maybe never would be, if I kept staying silent like this.
Right then, the doors of the private rooftop elevator opened.
A group of men in dark suits stepped out, led by a composed, middle-aged man who carried himself like someone used to making very large decisions.
I recognized him immediately — Bernhard Krüger, Chairman of the Board of the group I worked for.
The whole party went quiet.
People murmured, wondering who this important guest was, as the hotel’s manager rushed over, bowing repeatedly.
Herr Krüger scanned the room — and stopped.
Not at the head table.
Not at Lukas or Sophie.
At the spot near the kitchen where I was standing, tray of leftovers still in my hands.