Later, they even accused me of bullying her, of competing for affection, of trying to drive her out of the family.
Their resentment toward me grew stronger with each passing day.
Until my fifteenth birthday, when the fragile bond we called “family” shattered completely.
That day, they took Emily out to celebrate early in the morning. Not one of them remembered me.
When they returned at night, they found me sitting alone in the dark living room.
Emily was the first to step forward, holding out a takeout box with a sweet smile:
“Happy birthday, sis. I brought you some cake!”
I opened the box and saw a mangled piece of peanut cake, smeared with traces of other frosting.
But Emily knew perfectly well that I was allergic to peanuts. She had done it on purpose.
I didn’t eat it. I just left it sitting there.
Her eyes reddened as she bit her lip and whimpered:
“I know, are you mad at me…?”
Immediately, everyone scolded me:
“Can’t you stop picking on Emily? She doesn’t owe you anything. Stop exploiting our guilt to push her away, what’s the point?”
“This is exactly what we feared. That’s why we took her out alone for her birthday. Can’t you just let it go?!”