“Your sister is twice the woman you’ll ever be, Alicia.”
My mother’s voice rang out across the dining room, cutting through the warm chatter of Thanksgiving dinner like a serrated blade. Twenty-three relatives turned their heads in my direction, forks pausing mid-bite, as if watching a car accident unfold in slow motion. I set down my wineglass with deliberate calm, my hands steady despite the familiar sting of humiliation washing over me.
The golden turkey at the center of the table seemed to mock me with its perfect presentation—just like everything else in this house always appeared flawless on the surface.
“Wonderful,” I replied, my voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. “Then she can give back the $80,000 I spent on her wedding.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even Uncle Robert, who never stopped talking about his fishing trips, sat frozen with his mouth half open.
My father nearly choked on his cranberry sauce, coughing violently, while my mother’s face drained of all color. My sister Vanessa looked like she’d seen a ghost.
My name is Alicia. I’m 29 years old, and I work as a procurement manager for Oaklight Publishing in Portland, Oregon.
I’ve spent the last eight years climbing the corporate ladder at one of the most respected publishing houses on the West Coast, negotiating million-dollar deals with suppliers and managing budgets that could fund small towns. Yet somehow, in my mother’s eyes, I’ve never measured up to my younger sister, Vanessa, the eternal golden child who could do no wrong.
Growing up, I was the responsible one. While Vanessa spent her teenage years sneaking out to parties and dating boys our parents disapproved of, I was buried in textbooks, earning straight A’s and working part-time jobs to save for college.
When Vanessa dropped out of community college after one semester to pursue her dream of becoming an influencer, I was graduating summa cum laude with a business degree and landing my first corporate job.
But none of that mattered to my parents. Vanessa was beautiful, charming, and vivacious. She had that effortless way of lighting up a room that everyone seemed to adore.
I was the practical one—the boring one—the daughter who sent birthday cards on time and remembered anniversaries, but somehow never sparked the same pride in my mother’s eyes.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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