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The dynamic between Sophia and me was complicated. She was not deliberately malicious\u2014just accustomed to being the center of attention. While I resented the inequality, I could not bring myself to resent her. She was my little sister, after all. Sometimes, in rare quiet moments when our parents weren\u2019t around, we would share secrets and laugh together like normal siblings. But those moments became increasingly rare as we grew older.<\/p>\n
My father, Thomas, now in his early sixties with salt\u2011and\u2011pepper hair and calloused hands, had always been a man of few words. He expressed love through practical acts\u2014fixing my car before I left for college, installing bookshelves in my childhood bedroom. But his eyes lit up differently when Sophia entered a room. With her, he found his voice\u2014asking about her day, her friends, her dreams.<\/p>\n
My mother, Laura, with her perpetually rushed demeanor and reading glasses perched on her head, managed our family with efficient care. She kept track of everyone\u2019s schedules, prepared balanced meals, and maintained an immaculate home. Yet her organizational skills seemed to falter when it came to remembering my achievements or preferences. She could recall Sophia\u2019s favorite color from each year of her life, but consistently bought me gifts in shades I disliked.<\/p>\n
Sophia\u2014now twenty\u2011five\u2014with our mother\u2019s blonde hair and our father\u2019s confident stance, had never known what it was like to truly struggle. Her path had always been smoothed by our parents\u2019 attention and resources. After college, which our parents paid for entirely, she decided to become a yoga instructor.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to find my authentic self,\u201d she explained, while our parents nodded in understanding. No one mentioned the business degree that had cost them thousands.<\/p>\n