My parents worshipped my little sister so much that the second she landed a basic marketing job, they sat me down and called me a “freeloader,” telling me I’d been hiding in my “safe little HR job” for five years—and kicked me out. The next morning, she strutted into her shiny new office, smirking, “Here to beg for a maid job?” I smiled, opened my folder, and slid it across the table. “No, Sarah. I’m here to deliver your termination letter.”

When Sarah learned to walk, Mom called every relative we had and narrated her wobbly steps like she was reporting from the moon landing.

When I brought home straight As in fifth grade, Dad glanced at my report card and said, “That’s good, honey. Maybe someday Sarah will go to that school too.”

When Sarah turned sixteen, my parents surprised her with a brand new Honda Civic, complete with a giant red bow on the hood. We have photos of that day framed in the hallway: Sarah shrieking, eyes wide, hands over her mouth in theatrical shock. Mom wiping tears. Dad beaming.

When I turned sixteen, Dad tossed me the keys to our fifteen-year-old Toyota Corolla with 180,000 miles and a broken air conditioner.

“Don’t say we never do anything for you,” he said, grinning.

I said thank you, because I was grateful. But that night, alone in my room, I stared at the photos of Sarah with her shiny new car and wondered what it would feel like to be loved like that.

Any time I pointed out the favoritism, my parents looked genuinely baffled.

“We love you both equally,” Mom would insist. “You’re just different.”

Different. As in, “We postponed your high school graduation party because Sarah’s piano recital got moved.”

Different. As in, “We can’t afford for you to study abroad, honey. But we’ll see what we can do for Sarah when she’s your age. She’s always wanted to travel.”

Different. As in, “No, we’re not coming to your college awards banquet. Sarah’s got cheer practice.”

It was always like that.

I learned early that obedience and achievement didn’t get me what I wanted. Not in that house.

But I still tried. God, did I try.

I was the responsible one. The quiet one. The child who did her homework without being told, who stayed home when grounded instead of sneaking out the bedroom window, who washed dishes and mowed lawns and filled out FAFSA forms.

I graduated high school with honors. My parents took me out for dinner at a mid-range Mexican restaurant and spent the whole evening talking about how “sweet” it would be when Sarah walked across that same stage in four years.

I got into a good state school for business administration and worked part-time at the campus bookstore to cover what my small scholarships and loans didn’t.

When I graduated summa cum laude, my parents came to the ceremony—and then left early to make it to Sarah’s dance recital, where she danced third-from-the-left in a line of nine girls to “Girls Just Want To Have Fun.”

At the time, I thought that’s just how it was in some families. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I racked up enough achievements, eventually they’d see me.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.