The Invisible Daughter Chapter 2

My relationship with my sister was complicated—and by complicated, I mean we were strangers who shared DNA.

The first year I moved back, we shared a room. I used to keep a diary with a little heart lock. Eventually, the locked diaries got too expensive, so I switched to a regular notebook.

One afternoon, I woke up from a nap and saw my sister sitting at the desk, casually flipping through my diary. I jumped out of bed and snatched it away. I started tearing the pages out, one by one, right in front of her.

“Psycho!” she yelled. No apology. Nothing.

“You’re the psycho! You’re a thief!” I screamed back.

The screaming woke our parents. My mom burst in, saw my sister sitting perfectly composed and me standing there, disheveled and shaking with rage.

Without asking a single question, my mom pointed at me. “You country brat. You have zero manners. Look at your sister—try acting like a civilized human being for once.”

That was the last time I ever fought with her. I stopped caring. I didn't want to share a life, or a conversation, or a mall trip with her. We were just two people living under the same roof.

My sister’s life was paved by my parents. After college, they got her a job as a teacher. When she decided she was too "short-tempered" for kids, she quit. My dad then pulled strings to get her a cushy office job at a major tech firm.

“It’s great,” my dad said. “She’s indoors, no manual labor, perfect for her.”

Whenever I was home from college, my mom made me escort my sister to and from work because she was "scared of the dark." One night, my sister invited a colleague over for dinner. When the colleague tried to help clear the table, my sister stopped her.

“Don't worry about it,” she said smoothly. “We have someone specifically for that.”

She meant me.

When it was time for my sister to get married, my parents bought her a house and a car. She stayed at our parents' place throughout her pregnancy so my mom could wait on her hand and foot.

The day she brought the baby home from the hospital, everyone was crowded around the stroller. I stood on the outside of the circle, watching.

“Your sister is still recovering,” my mom commanded, looking at me. “You’re going to help her with the baby from now on.”

“I have to go back to school,” I said. “I’m not staying here.”

“Summer break starts in a week!” my mom snapped.

I didn't argue. I just didn't come home for the summer. I told them I found an internship, just so I wouldn't have to be a full-time, unpaid nanny.

After graduation, I moved to a different state for work. My mom would call occasionally with fake concern. “If you need anything, tell us. The family is here for you.”

But if I ever actually asked for advice, she would just turn it around and blame me for whatever problem I had. She never asked if I liked my apartment or my life. She just wanted to sound like a good mother.

On Mother’s Day, I texted her: Happy Mother’s Day.

She replied: Same to you.

Did she think I was a mother? No. In her mind, her only "real" daughter was the one who had already given her a grandson.