My sister and her family thought it was for them. They used a key my mother stole to move in while I was out. When I came home and found them rearranging my furniture, I didn’t say a word.
I just picked up my phone. She screamed when she saw what I did next. Am I in the wrong for calling the police when my sister’s family broke into my new house with a stolen spare key?
I’m Kate, I’m twenty-seven, and I feel like I’ve spent the majority of my life in the long, eclipsing shadow of my older sister, Anna. At thirty, she has always been the family’s golden child, the sun around which all other planets in our little solar system were forced to orbit. She was the smart one, the social one, the one capable of charming her way out of any situation with a dazzling smile and a toss of her perfectly highlighted hair.
Meanwhile, I’ve been cast in the role of “the irresponsible one,” a label which, in my family’s unique dictionary, simply refers to the one who does all the work but receives none of the credit. Growing up, Anna always had the best of everything, a fact that was presented as the natural order of things. Her birthdays were large, sprawling garden festivities, complete with rented bounce castles that sagged in the Texas heat and patient ponies that plodded in circles with squealing children on their backs.
Mine were pizza parties in the dining room, featuring a sheet cake from the grocery store bakery with my name misspelled in waxy frosting. When Anna got the three-story Barbie Dream House for Christmas, a universe of pink plastic perfection, I received a secondhand counterfeit with a missing elevator and a distinct crack in the roof. My parents would simply remark, “You don’t need all that fancy stuff, Kate,” or the classic, “Be grateful for what you have.” Anna’s gratitude, however, was never a required part of the equation.
The great separation, the moment the chasm between us became a canyon, occurred when I entered college. I had worked relentlessly in high school, juggling AP classes, a part-time job, and extracurriculars to maintain a high GPA. I was admitted to a good local university and believed I had a great, financially sound plan: I’d commute from home to economize on dorm fees, saving thousands.
Anna had attended her dream school out-of-state, and my parents had funded everything from her tuition to her sorority dues, so I figured they’d be happy to support my much cheaper plan. I was wrong. When I mentioned my intention to live at home, my mother looked at me as if I had just suggested we relocate to Mars.
“Well, if you’re staying here, you’ll need to contribute,” she stated casually, as if discussing the weather. “Anna got a full ride from us because she deserved it. You need to learn some responsibility.”
I was eighteen years old and preparing to enter college, a milestone they celebrated for Anna with a new laptop and a shopping spree.
For me, they were already talking about paying rent. “Contribute,” it turned out, meant a non-negotiable $400 per month for my childhood bedroom and utilities, plus my own groceries. That may not seem like much unless you’re a broke college student working part-time at a dusty bookstore for nine dollars an hour.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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