My Spoiled Sister Was Always The Star — Private School, Luxury Trips, And A New Car At 18. At Our Gr. My spoiled sister was always the star: private school, luxury trips, and a new car at 18.
At our grandma’s birthday dinner, she found out I quietly bought a penthouse in NYC, and she lost her mind. She screamed. My dad dropped his fork.
And my aunt said something that made everyone freeze. Hi, Reddit. Throw away for obvious reasons.
I’m Maya, 30F, and if you ever grew up in the shadow of the golden child, you already know where this is going. My younger sister, Chloe, 27F, was born three years after me and has been the family favorite since she took her first breath. I’m not being bitter, just factual.
While I was getting secondhand clothes and character building lectures about working hard, Chloe got ballet lessons, brand new iPhones, shopping weekends in New York, and even a sweet red BMW for her 18th birthday. She went to private school. I went to public.
She got flown to Coachella. I got told to keep an eye on the house while they were gone. Every report card I brought home, even if it had straight A’s, was met with, “That’s good, Maya.” But have you seen how well Khloe’s doing?
When I got accepted into a solid state college, I was told to take out loans. You’re responsible now. When Kloe got into an overpriced private university with no real plan, my parents paid the full ride and her apartment rent.
No questions asked. By 23, I was juggling two jobs and living in a shoe box. By 25, I had a marketing day job and was freelancing at night to pay off my student debt.
No one noticed. No one asked. Meanwhile, Khloe was blowing up her Instagram with modeling photooots, partying with her influencer friends, and treating life like a runway.
She went viral for a Tik Tok dance once, and suddenly, she was the pride of the family. My mom even joked that I should ask Chloe for tips on how to be successful. So, I stopped trying to prove anything.
I started saving quietly. I moved in with roommates, worked holidays, ate instant noodles for weeks at a time. I maxed out side gigs, invested smart, sacrificed vacations.
No one ever asked how I was doing. They just assumed I was fine because I didn’t complain. Cut to last weekend.
Our grandmother turned 85 and we threw her a fancy dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. Extended family, friends, speeches, the works. I showed up in a simple black dress, quietly handed the hostess my card.
I had pre-arranged to cover grandma’s tab and sat in the far corner. Kloe arrived 40 minutes late, waltzing in like a celebrity in a designer dress, dramatically kissing everyone and loudly announcing how exhausted she was from her brand meeting in LA. Halfway through dinner, my uncle casually asked, “So, Maya, still doing marketing stuff?” I smiled and said, “Yeah, still remote.
Actually, just got settled into the new place last month.” “What place?” my mom asked. “Oh,” I said, pretending to sit my drink. “I bought a penthouse in Manhattan, Upper West Side.
Closed early October.” Dead. Silence. My dad dropped his fork.
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