A few years ago, my dad got wasted at a bar and let some "friends" talk him into buying a pre-construction condo. Later, once the building was finished, he took my younger brother, my grandma, and me to go see it. While we were walking through the place, my grandma—the woman who actually raised me—asked my dad who this condo was for. My dad, still in a generous mood from his lingering buzz, answered flatly, “It’s for her. It’s for the middle child.” Grandma smiled, finally satisfied. On the drive back, my brother was behind the wheel, and I was in the passenger seat. Suddenly, he spoke up. “Sis, don’t take what Dad said back there too seriously. He only bought that place because he was drunk and people were egging him on. He regretted it the next morning. A couple of days ago, he was asking me if he should flip it or try to rent it out. I told him to just sell it. It’ll cost fifteen grand just to furnish and fix it up, and renters will just trash the place. Right, Sis?” My heart went cold. I didn't say a word. My brother was born in '94. When he graduated college, my parents bought him a house and a car in the city. When he got married, they even bought a new car for his wife. Then there’s me, born in '92. I have no house, no car. Even the money for my Master’s degree abroad was earned by my own blood and sweat, working two jobs in a foreign country where I didn't know a soul. The hardest times were when tuition was due. I had to open half a dozen credit cards, maxing one out to pay the other in a desperate cycle just to stay in school. And here was my brother, who already owned everything, trying to snatch away the only thing our father had ever offered me—the first thing I would have ever received from them. But my brother was right. That condo never made it into my hands. Even now, my grandma still says to me, “Don’t be so hard on yourself out there. Your dad already bought you that place, so stop living so frugally.” Hearing her, I just think to myself: That place never belonged to me. Technically, nothing ever belonged to me. But I never corrected my dad’s lie in front of my grandma. I didn't want to break her heart. Most people assume my parents favor boys over girls. But it’s not that. I have an older sister, five years my senior. Just like my brother, she was always the golden child. It was only me. I was the one living on the edges of the family photo. When I first wanted to go abroad for grad school, I asked my parents for support. My dad said nothing. My mom said, “Two years abroad? That’s going to cost a fortune. Just stay here and get a job. You can be close to your siblings, and we can help you out if things get tough.” Then she shifted her tone. “We paid for your undergrad. We’ve already done so much for you. Stop thinking about what this family can give you and start thinking about what you’ve given to this family.” I did what my dad did. I said nothing. I just sat there wondering: What exactly has this family ever given me? From the day I was born, they didn't even give me a name of my own. 1 I was born during the strictest years of the birth control laws. My parents already had my five-year-old sister, so my arrival was a secret. When I was born, I didn't cry. My dad took one look at me and said, “She’s not going to make it. Just bury her.” The midwife couldn't stand it. She tried everything—shocking my body with cold and hot water—but I lay there as still as a piece of wood. Finally, she had an idea. She had my dad blow cigarette smoke into my face while hanging me upside down. Unbelievably, it worked. I lived. Who would have thought that the person who wanted me to live most wasn't my father, but a midwife I didn’t even know? Because my existence was illegal, they couldn't let anyone know about me. They bundled me up and snuck me out to the countryside to live with my Great Aunt. When my Great Aunt took me from my dad’s arms, he made it very clear: “We aren't giving her to you. We’re just letting you raise her for a few years. We’ll come back for her.” They chose the five-year-old they already knew over the seven-month-old they didn't. They sent me away. I spent my childhood in the country. My Great Aunt was amazing. She treated me like her own daughter. If her sons got something, I got a share too. Even though I don't make a lot now, I still send her a few thousand dollars every year. When it was time for middle school, my parents suddenly decided to bring me back to the city. My Great Aunt’s eyes were full of tears as she patted my hand. “When you go back,” she whispered, “be good. Work hard. Do what they say. That’s the only way they’ll love you.” She turned to my parents and pleaded, “She’s been away a long time. She doesn't know you well. You need to put in the effort to get to know her.” My mom only replied, “I don't have time for that kind of drama.” Back in the city, the first thing they did was take me to the station to add me to the family registry. They didn't even give me a new name. They just gave me my sister’s old one. They had gotten my sister a new identity and registry. I became the "replacement" eldest daughter on paper. My sister’s name was Chloe. My name became... Chloe. I didn't understand. If my sister was the oldest, why did her new name mean "Little Rain," while I was just "Rain"? I moved into my "real" home. I followed my Great Aunt’s advice. I was quiet. I was helpful. I did all the chores. But in my sister’s eyes, my helpfulness was just a desperate attempt to suck up to our parents. In her world, you could brown-nose anyone, but you shouldn't have to brown-nose your own parents. I was sent to a boarding school. The first time I ever rode in my dad’s car was when he dropped me off. He promised to pick me up every Friday. But my mom told me, “Your dad is busy. He doesn't have time to drive out there every week. Don’t you dare call him and pester him.” Was he really that busy? No. My mom just felt that I wasn't worth his time. Later, when my brother started school nearby, my dad picked him up every single week. Suddenly, he had plenty of time for me, too—because I was the "buy one, get one free" passenger. One time, we were all going out. My mom said, “Wait a minute, your dad needs to go pay the insurance premiums for your brother and sister.” It turned out that when they bought health and life insurance, they only bought it for the two of them. Maybe because they never invested any time or energy into me, they never learned to value me. You love what you nurture. Like the Little Prince and his rose—he loved his rose not because it was the only one, but because of the time he spent tending to it. My parents never tended to me. And because they never loved me, I never learned how to depend on them. 2 My relationship with my sister was complicated—and by complicated, I mean we were strangers who shared DNA. The first year I moved back, we shared a room. I used to keep a diary with a little heart lock. Eventually, the locked diaries got too expensive, so I switched to a regular notebook. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap and saw my sister sitting at the desk, casually flipping through my diary. I jumped out of bed and snatched it away. I started tearing the pages out, one by one, right in front of her. “Psycho!” she yelled. No apology. Nothing. “You’re the psycho! You’re a thief!” I screamed back. The screaming woke our parents. My mom burst in, saw my sister sitting perfectly composed and me standing there, disheveled and shaking with rage. Without asking a single question, my mom pointed at me. “You country brat. You have zero manners. Look at your sister—try acting like a civilized human being for once.” That was the last time I ever fought with her. I stopped caring. I didn't want to share a life, or a conversation, or a mall trip with her. We were just two people living under the same roof. My sister’s life was paved by my parents. After college, they got her a job as a teacher. When she decided she was too "short-tempered" for kids, she quit. My dad then pulled strings to get her a cushy office job at a major tech firm. “It’s great,” my dad said. “She’s indoors, no manual labor, perfect for her.” Whenever I was home from college, my mom made me escort my sister to and from work because she was "scared of the dark." One night, my sister invited a colleague over for dinner. When the colleague tried to help clear the table, my sister stopped her. “Don't worry about it,” she said smoothly. “We have someone specifically for that.” She meant me. When it was time for my sister to get married, my parents bought her a house and a car. She stayed at our parents' place throughout her pregnancy so my mom could wait on her hand and foot. The day she brought the baby home from the hospital, everyone was crowded around the stroller. I stood on the outside of the circle, watching. “Your sister is still recovering,” my mom commanded, looking at me. “You’re going to help her with the baby from now on.” “I have to go back to school,” I said. “I’m not staying here.” “Summer break starts in a week!” my mom snapped. I didn't argue. I just didn't come home for the summer. I told them I found an internship, just so I wouldn't have to be a full-time, unpaid nanny. After graduation, I moved to a different state for work. My mom would call occasionally with fake concern. “If you need anything, tell us. The family is here for you.” But if I ever actually asked for advice, she would just turn it around and blame me for whatever problem I had. She never asked if I liked my apartment or my life. She just wanted to sound like a good mother. On Mother’s Day, I texted her: Happy Mother’s Day. She replied: Same to you. Did she think I was a mother? No. In her mind, her only "real" daughter was the one who had already given her a grandson. 3 Like my sister, my brother got a house and a car when he married. When his kid was born, my mom called me. “The family is growing, and you haven't even come to visit.” I took a twelve-hour train and a bus to get home. The first thing my mom said when I walked through the door wasn't "Are you tired?" or "Have you eaten?" It was: “What did you buy for your nephew?” “I didn't buy anything,” I said, annoyed. “Then just give him cash.” She immediately turned back to the crib, cooing at the baby. After the holidays, my brother and I were leaving the city together. My parents packed his trunk until it was bursting—pickles, milk, snacks, pots, pans, even towels. Everything he could ever need. Then my mom looked at me. “Do you want to take a watermelon?” I just laughed. She didn't even give me the watermelon. I left empty-handed. As we got into the car, my mom told my brother, “When you get to the South Station, there’s a highway exit. Just drop your sister off there.” I wasn't even worth the gas it would take for my brother to drive me to my actual door. I had to get out on the side of the road and find my own way home. My mom isn't stingy with things—she’s just stingy with me. Everything she gives has strings attached. You have to beg. You have to smile. I’m too stubborn for that. One October, the fruit trees in my parents' yard were full. They brought a basket to my brother’s house and told me to come by and grab some. After dinner, we all went to the mall to look at cars for my brother’s wife. “What do you think?” my mom asked me. “I don’t have an opinion,” I said. “I can’t afford a car anyway.” “Fine. Here’s some cash. Take the kids to the play area while we finish up here.” She shooed me away so they could finish buying a car for my sister-in-law. Shortly after that, I left the country for grad school. 4 I came back during the pandemic after finishing my Master's. After a nightmare of expensive flights and two weeks of quarantine in a facility, I finally made it to my hometown. The "welcome home" wasn't a hot meal. It was a shack in the back alley. As I got out of the car, my mom stood there in a mask, wielding a bottle of disinfectant. She sprayed me down from head to toe. I couldn't see her face behind the mask, but the vibe wasn't "I missed you." It was "You're a biohazard." “If you don’t have anything important to do, don’t leave this room,” she said, locking the door from the outside. I looked around. The room was filthy. Muddy footprints on the floor. Thick dust on the table. They knew I was coming for 21 days—and they couldn't even wipe a desk? There was an electric burner on the table and a pot covered in rust. In the corner was a box of Cup Noodles. The next day, she brought me some eggs and a cucumber. “Eat this. You need to lose weight anyway.” For the next few days, she would drop off a bowl of food, knock, and wait for me to grab it through a crack in the door. No conversation. The worst part? There was no bathroom. I had to use a public restroom in the building next door. I didn't see my dad until the very last day of my isolation. He gave me a nod. “You’re back.” That was it. If I hadn't been so "good" when I first moved back—if I hadn't done all the chores and played the obedient daughter—would things be different? Probably not. As soon as I was allowed to leave, I booked an Uber to the city. It cost me eighty dollars, but I didn't care. I just wanted out. That was the third time I left home. I stayed in the city with my best friend from college. We got an apartment and I adopted a dog—a little toy poodle I named Happy. Even with a Master's degree, my lack of local experience and the job market made things hard. I applied to dozens of places before finding a basic 9-to-5 job with mediocre pay. But I didn't lose hope. I worked my ass off. I wanted to be the most successful child in the family without a dime of their help. My first goal: buy a small house for my Great Aunt back in the country. I didn't contact my parents for a year. They didn't contact me either. I worked, I learned, I prepared for my next career jump. I lost weight. I built a life. My best friend—I call her my "sister" because she’s more of a sister than Chloe ever was—is always there for me. She thinks I’m too soft, that I let people walk all over me. She says I’m the kindest person she knows, but she worries I don’t know how to get angry. “I’ll be your backup,” she told me once. “If anyone messes with you, they mess with me.” We did everything together. Shopping, trying new restaurants, traveling. Everything I never did with my real sister, I did with her. “I feel more like your sister anyway,” she said. “You are my sister,” I replied. I couldn't choose my family, but I chose my friends.
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