The ribbon sat there for 3 days until it got moved to a pile of mail and eventually thrown in a drawer. They never asked me about the fair. Not once.
That was the pattern. My successes were invisible. Khloe’s failures were emergencies.
The financial difference was the most insulting part. When Khloe turned 16, my parents bought her a car. It wasn’t a brand-new car, but it was a nice, reliable sedan. They put a big red bow on it. They took pictures of her screaming with joy in the driveway.
“We want you to be safe,” Dad said, handing her the keys. “We want you to have independence.”
Two years later, I turned 16. I got my license on my birthday. I came home holding the plastic card, feeling a tiny spark of hope. Maybe I would get a car, too. Or maybe just permission to use the family car.
There was no car in the driveway.
“Good job on passing the test,” Dad said. He was reading the newspaper.
“So, can I drive to school now?” I asked.
Dad laughed. “Drive what? I need my truck for work. Your mom needs her car.”
“What about Khloe’s car?” I asked. “She’s at college. She didn’t take it.”
“Chloe might need it when she comes home for weekends,” Mom said. “We don’t want you putting miles on it. It’s her car.”
“So, how do I get to school?” I asked.
“The bus,” Dad said. “Or you can walk. It’s only 2 m.”
“But Chloe got a car,” I said. The unfairness was choking me. “You bought her a car.”
“We had more money then,” Dad lied. I knew it was a lie. He had just bought a new boat. “Times are tighter now, Audrey. Don’t be ungrateful. We feed you. We house you.”
Ungrateful. That was their favorite word for me whenever I pointed out the inequality.
So, I got a job. I worked at a diner on weekends and after school. I saved every penny. I bought a rusted 20-year-old hatchback from a neighbor for $800. It smelled like wet dog, and the heater didn’t work.
My parents hated it.
“That thing is an eyesore in the driveway,” Mom complained. “Park it on the street.”
So, I did. I parked my car on the street while Khloe’s car sat in the garage collecting dust, waiting for her to come home once a month.
The final blow of my high school years, the one that really hardened my heart, was the college essay. I wanted to get into a good university. I knew my parents weren’t going to pay for it. They had spent their college fund on Khloe’s tuition at a private liberal arts college where she was currently failing two classes and majoring in general studies.
I needed a scholarship. I needed a full ride. There was a statewide essay contest. The prize was a full scholarship to the state university. It was prestigious. It was competitive.
I spent three months writing that asset. The topic was overcoming adversity. I wrote about growing up in the shadow. I didn’t name names, but I wrote about the feeling of being invisible. I wrote about the science fair. I wrote about the rusted bike. I poured my soul onto the paper. It was the best thing I had ever written.
I printed it out. I left it on the dining room table to proofread it one last time before submitting it.
The next day, I came home from school. I walked into the kitchen. My mom was sitting at the table with Kloe, who was home for the weekend. They were reading my essay.
My heart stopped.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Khloe looked up. Her eyes were red. She was crying.
“How could you write this?” Kloe sobbed. She waved the paper at me. “You make me look like a monster. You make Mom and Dad look like bad parents.”
“It’s… it’s just an essay,” I stammered. “It’s about my perspective.”
My mom stood up. She was furious. Her face was tight with anger.
“This is a betrayal, Audrey,” Mom spat. “Airing our dirty laundry, telling strangers that we don’t love you. How dare you?”
“It’s the truth!” I yelled. It was the first time I had raised my voice in years. “It’s how I feel.”
“It is selfish!” Mom yelled back. “If you submit this, you will humiliate your sister. You will humiliate this family.”
She took my essay. She ripped it in half. Then she ripped it again.
“You are not submitting this,” Mom said. “Write something else. Write about—I don’t know—write about volunteering, but you are not submitting this garbage.”