I folded laundry without being asked.

I knew exactly how long to leave chicken in the oven because Mom often shouted instructions from the living room while helping my little sister, Sabrina, find her lost sparkly shoes.

By the time I was six, I could pack Sabrina’s backpack, slice apples for her snack, and braid her hair better than our mother ever did.

Looking back, I realized they treated me like a tiny adult long before I’d even stopped playing with crayons.

Sabrina, on the other hand, was the princess.

That word floated around our household as casually as the scent of Mom’s vanilla candles.

“Where’s my princess?” Dad would call out the moment he walked through the door, even if I’d been the one setting the table or hauling grocery bags in from the car.

Sabrina’s slightest frown was met with soothing voices and gentle hugs.

My tears were met with a tired sigh—or a reminder that life isn’t always fair.

Whenever Sabrina and I fought over toys, over space, over something as small as who got the bigger slice of cake, the blame fell on me.

“You’re older,” they’d say.