Rosie was the firstborn.

The hope. The joy.

The life of the room.

Her parents would sit for hours, listening to her tell stories.

They laughed. Clapped. Leaned in.

Rosie glowed warmly in the living room, right there, in the midst of their love and admiration.

As she grew, so did her confidence.

Her stories became richer. More elaborate.

Sometimes she acted them out. Played characters. Even tried on different voices.

Her parents would glance at each other with proud smiles.

“Did you hear that, dear? Imagine that… a UFO,” her father would say.

“What silliness,” her mother would protest.

And then they’d talk.

For hours.

Happily debating. Teasing one another. Her father would lean over and give his wife a kiss.

And Rosie, she would sit there, listening.

“I did that,” she would whisper to herself, a quiet smile on her face.

The three of them filled the room.

Life in the little bungalow was good.

Rosie never imagined it ever would change.

One evening, she overheard her parents talking.

“There’s a little one on the way,” her father said.

“Oh, I’m so excited,” her mother replied. “What do you think it will be like?”

“Abe and Cathy can’t stop talking about theirs,” her father replied with a chuckle.

Another one? Rosie thought.

What other one? What was coming?

Rosie wasn’t too keen on change.

Her father had once given her a new dress.

“At least try it on,” he had insisted.

“It’s too tight,” she had complained.

“It’s fashionable,” he had insisted. “You need to keep up with the times.”

And now something entirely new was on its way.

“Whatever it might be, it could not be all bad,” she thought.

She put on a brave face.

It was early morning. She had heard the doorbell ringing.

She must have dozed off. And all at once, he was there.

Teddy.

At first, he didn’t seem like much.

Small. Pale.

“Not much going on there,” Rosie thought.

They made a bit of space for him in the living room.

Moved her slightly to the side, next to the fireplace.

But that was fine.

He didn’t say much anyway.

And even from her place in the room, she could still reach them if she spoke a little louder.

“This isn’t ideal,” she thought.

“But we can make it work. We’re a family.”

But Teddy grew. Surprisingly fast, she thought.

He found his colours.

His voice.

He got louder. A little frisky, some would say.

Harder to ignore.

And bigger.

So big that one day, Rosie woke up

and found herself in the basement.

“It’s for the best,” her father said.

“Feed me!” Teddy shouted from upstairs.

He was always hungry.

For time. Attention. Snacks.

Everything he could get his hands on.

Rosie learned to live on less.

Much less.

Years passed.

Teddy spread through the house.

Room by room.

Leaving traces of himself everywhere.

Always on.

Always demanding.

Rosie, on the other hand, she became a shadow of herself.

The lack of sunlight left her skin pale.

Her once radiant black hair lost its shine.

Sometimes, her father would take her out.

They went on a drive. Just the two of them.

Those moments meant everything to her.

He once stopped the car in the driveway. He gave her a little squeeze.

“Why are you not more like your brother?” he said softly.

From the basement, Rosie could hear them upstairs.

She had heard her mother say, “He’s a bit of an attention seeker, isn’t he?”

Rosie agreed. He would say the most preposterous things sometimes.

“A hamster can be cured of jetlag with Viagra!” he once shouted, just as their parents were about to leave the living room.

They stopped.

Turned back.

“Really?” they asked.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Teddy snapped.

“Why? What are you suggesting?”

“Now, now,” her father said. “No need to get upset.”

Rosie was getting used to the quiet life in the shadows now.

She still loved telling stories, even if there was no one around to pay attention.

One day, she heard her mother in the kitchen.

“I do miss our Rosie, I do,” she said to her father.

“It’s like we were more…” she trailed off a little, “more like a family with her around.”

“What’s that you are saying, dear?” her father bellowed over Teddy.

“I was thinking that we might let Rosie come back up,” her mother said.

“No!” Teddy roared.

“What can she do that I can’t do better?”

Then he told a joke.

A not very appropriate one at that.

And then he continued making a racket that sounded like banging on kitchenware.

“I’ll bring her a sandwich,” her mother said quietly.

“Mine,” Teddy shouted. “It’s all mine!”

“Oh, Teddy…”

Soft sounds of footsteps returning to the living room.

Time passed.

Upstairs, her parents had become prone to using fewer words.

The conversations they did have sounded more like arguments.

Rosie had not heard any real laughter in the house for a long time.

“When was the last time we had a conversation?” her mother once asked.

“A real conversation?”

Rosie could not hear her father’s answer.

Only Teddy.

“You will not speak!” Teddy roared. “You will look at me.”

A pause.

“Oh, Teddy…”

“Sorry, Teddy,” her father’s muffled voice said softly.

Rosie could hear the old springs in the sofa creak under the weight of her parents as they sat down.

And that was the last thing Rosie ever heard from them.

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