— Part 1 —
My sister’s wedding was approaching, so my parents made sure to fund everything. They bought her a house, furniture, even decorations. I said, half laughing, half hopeful, “I would also like all of this.” That was when my parents lost it.
“Your sister deserves it more,” my mother snapped.
Dad added, “Now we know you have money saved up. Hand it over.
We need to fund her wedding, too.”
“That’s all I have,” I pleaded. My mother grabbed me by the hair, slammed me against the wall, and shouted, “Hand it over and get out.
You’re out of the house and out of the will.”
My sister smirked alongside them.
I left that night with nothing. Now, five years later, they drive past my mansion every day asking, “Why does she have that?”
The announcement came during Sunday dinner. My father set down his fork with that particular finality he reserved for major declarations, my mother’s face already clothed with anticipatory pride.
They were going to fund Jasmine’s entire wedding.
I watched my younger sister clasp her hands, her engagement ring catching the chandelier light. Jasmine had always been beautiful in that effortless way some people possess—golden hair, perfect teeth, a laugh that made everyone in the room turn toward her like sunflowers tracking the sun.
Her fiancé, Douglas, sat beside her, his hand proprietarily on her knee, smiling that practiced smile he gave everyone. “We’ve already put the deposit down on the Lakewood Estate,” my mother continued, practically vibrating with excitement.
“The ceremony will be outdoors by the gazebo, weather permitting.
We’re thinking late September, when the leaves start turning.”
“The guest list is at 250,” Jasmine added, scrolling through her phone with her free hand. “Douglas’s family alone is bringing seventy people. Can you believe it?
His mother insists on inviting every single cousin.”
My father beamed.
His younger daughter could do no wrong. Never had.
Jasmine graduated college with a liberal arts degree and no particular career ambitions, spending the following three years bouncing between part‑time retail jobs while living at home rent‑free. Meanwhile, I’d worked full‑time through my own college years, graduated with a business degree, and moved out at twenty‑two to a cramped studio apartment I could barely afford.
“We’re also covering the down payment on a house for them,” my father announced as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
“Three bedroom, two bath. Beautiful neighborhood over in Maple Heights. They close next month.”
Jasmine squealed.
Douglas looked appropriately grateful, though I noticed a calculating gleam in his eyes.
This was a man who knew exactly how to play the game. “That’s amazing,” I managed, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.
“Really generous of you both.”
“Well, it’s what parents do,” my mother said—though her eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “We want to give our daughter the best possible start to her married life.”
Our daughter.
Singular.
I felt the familiar ache in my chest, the one that had been my companion since childhood. Jasmine was their daughter. I was just the eldest, the one who existed in the background, the one who learned early that love in our household came with conditions I could never quite meet.
The next weeks passed in a blur of wedding preparations.
My mother took Jasmine shopping for her dress—a $5,000 creation of silk and lace that required three fittings. They picked out China patterns and registered for gifts at stores I couldn’t afford.
My father wrote check after check, his hands steady, his face pleased. I got updates in passing.
The cake would be from an exclusive bakery that required orders six months in advance.
The flowers would cost more than I made in a month. The photographer had shot celebrity weddings. Everything was the best, the most expensive, the most exclusive.
One evening, I sat in their living room while Jasmine sorted through invitation samples spread across the coffee table.
My mother hovered nearby offering opinions on fonts and paper weight. I’d stopped by to drop off a birthday gift for my father, a modest but thoughtful book on vintage cars he collected.
“Look at this one,” Jasmine said, holding up a cream‑colored card with gold embossing. “It’s hand‑pressed Italian paper.
Each invitation costs twelve dollars.”
My mother nodded approvingly.
“Nothing but the best for your day, sweetheart. Are you going to help us send them out, Alexandra? We have 250 to address.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I can help.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Jasmine and I had never been close. There was too much distance between us—too many years of watching her receive the affection I’d been denied.
I didn’t hate her, exactly, but I didn’t love her either. She felt more like a stranger who happened to share my last name.
The furniture shopping trip happened on a Saturday.
I had the day off from my job at the accounting firm where I worked as a junior analyst—crunching numbers in a gray cubicle while dreaming of something more. My mother called that morning and asked if I wanted to come along. I should have said no.
I should have felt the trap closing.
But some pathetic part of me still hoped that maybe, just this once, I’d be included. The furniture store sprawled across an entire city block—the kind of place where salespeople wore suits and offered champagne to customers.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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