Chloe, on the other hand, became an expert at getting what she wanted. If a chore upset her, I did it. If a friend hurt her feelings, my parents blamed the friend. If she failed a test, they told her teacher she was overwhelmed. When she broke a vase while dancing in the hallway, she burst into tears—and without even thinking, I said it was my fault.
I spent the weekend grounded while she went to a sleepover. No one asked why I did it. They’d already decided the roles: fragile Chloe, strong Lena. Case closed.
Birthdays marked the difference more than anything else. Chloe’s were extravagant—balloons everywhere, themed cupcakes, twenty kids in the backyard, presents stacked so high you couldn’t see the table. Mine were a quiet dinner, a store-bought cake, parents too tired to promise much beyond:
“We’ll celebrate properly next year.”
Next year never came.
Despite everything, I don’t remember growing up angry. That might be the saddest truth. I learned early to believe that wanting anything for myself was selfish. That asking for support was ungrateful. That being overlooked was normal.
By high school, I was the dependable one—teachers relied on me, the friend who remembered everyone’s birthdays even when mine came and went unnoticed, the girl who got good grades without help, who worked a part-time job to save money for college, who never asked anyone to pick up the slack.
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