The underlying message was clear. Sophia was blessed with gifts, while I merely compensated with effort.

I was eight years old when I brought home my first perfect spelling test. My father glanced at it and said, “Good job, kiddo,” before returning to his newspaper. That same evening, Sophia—only three—stacked blocks in what my parents deemed an exceptionally advanced pattern, earning her ice cream and endless praise.

This pattern continued throughout my childhood. My straight As were expected, not celebrated. When I made the honor roll every year in high school, my mother would nod and say, “That is what happens when you study.” Meanwhile, when Sophia got her first B+, our parents took her out for a special dinner to celebrate her “breakthrough.”

Money in our household always seemed to flow toward Sophia’s pursuits: private dance lessons, expensive soccer camps, custom debate suits. No expense was spared. When I needed a new graphing calculator or wanted to attend a summer science program, I was gently reminded about family budget constraints and encouraged to find part‑time work. By sixteen, I was working weekends at the local bookstore, saving every dollar for college. My parents had started a college fund for both of us, but Sophia’s activities had slowly drained mine.

“You are so responsible with money, Kay,” my mother said, as if my forced frugality were a character virtue rather than a necessity.

My birthdays became predictable exercises in disappointment. My sixteenth birthday dinner was canceled because it conflicted with Sophia’s regional dance competition. My eighteenth was remembered two days late with a hastily purchased card and a twenty‑dollar bill. By my twenty‑first, I had stopped expecting anything at all.