The Golden Child
My sister, Emma, floated through life. Fully paid college. A brand-new car wrapped in a bow. Every step of her path paved in gold. I walked barefoot through glass. But I never complained. I told myself they’d see the difference one day — that they’d realize the cost of everything I carried. I was wrong.
That evening, we sat at the table — the same table where I had once hoped for family, not obligation. My father leaned back, sipping wine like a king. My mother scrolled through real estate listings on her tablet. “Emma found the perfect place downtown,” Dad said. “Two bedrooms, close to her office. $350,000. We thought — you could help her out. You’re doing so well.”
Emma’s smile was soft, practiced, dangerous. She didn’t even look at me when she said, “It’s only fair. You’re the responsible one.”
Fair. That word lit the fuse. It wasn’t just about that moment — it was every birthday overshadowed, every one-sided favor, every sacrifice ignored. I wasn’t family. I was a resource. A wallet with a pulse. And I knew that if I gave in now, it wouldn’t stop there. Next would be her business, her vacations, her failures — my responsibility.
