Everything about this note screamed of how I overshadowed her, showed off, put her down, mocked her, and made her feel small. She couldn't take it anymore, she just couldn't stand the world I made for her.
I was baffled—where was all this "pressure" even coming from?
At home, Emily was the golden child; whatever she said, our parents swallowed whole, striving to give her the world.
And there I was, stuck with her hand-me-downs.
Despite there being two spare bedrooms, she claimed one and turned the other into a dressing room.
It left me banished to the musty old storage room downstairs, sweltering in summer and freezing in winter.
Mom always said it was because, as the elder, I had hogged the nutrients in the womb, which left Emily weak and sickly at birth.
So I bit my tongue and never complained—even though it hurt, I always stepped aside for Emily.
But why was my hard-earned spot at Stanford suddenly a problem just because Emily flunked her exams?
Watching Dad rip my acceptance letter to shreds and throw it away like trash tore a hole in my heart.
I bent down to pick up the pieces.