I’m Sarah Nguyen, 34F, living in Seattle, Washington. I’m the middle child of three—older brother James (38M), younger sister Emily (31F). Growing up Asian-American in a first-generation household, the expectations were clear: excel at school, get a stable job, support the parents in old age. I did all of it. Straight A’s, full-ride scholarship to UW, became a software engineer at a solid tech company, bought my own condo at 28, never asked for a dime after college.
James got mediocre grades, partied through community college, bounced between jobs, and eventually settled as a car salesman. Emily dropped out of college after one semester, moved back home, started a small Etsy shop selling custom jewelry, and still lives with our parents rent-free at 31. They call her “creative” and “sensitive.” They call me “practical” like it’s a compliment with an eye-roll.
The favoritism was never loud. It was in the small things that piled up. When James wrecked his first car at 19, Dad paid for the repairs and a new one. When I got my first speeding ticket at 21, I paid it myself and got lectured about responsibility. Emily’s Etsy business lost money for years; Mom quietly transferred her grocery money to cover supplies. When I mentioned needing help with a down payment years ago, Dad said, “You’re doing fine, you don’t need it.” Emily got a $10,000 “loan” (never repaid) for inventory.
Last Christmas made it undeniable. We all gathered at the house. Mom announced they were downsizing and selling the family home. They planned to give James and Emily each $150,000 from the proceeds to “help them get established.” I got nothing. When I asked why—quietly, in the kitchen—Mom said, “James has a family now, and Emily’s business needs a boost. You’re independent, you always have been.” Dad added, “You chose a good career. They need more help.” Emily hugged me later and whispered, “I told them to split it three ways, but they said you’d be offended if they offered.” I wasn’t offended. I was invisible.
I left early that night. Haven’t gone back for holidays since. I still call weekly, send gifts, check in on their health. They act like nothing changed. James texts me memes. Emily posts family photos without me tagged. I smile in the rare group pics when I’m forced to attend birthdays, but the truth sits heavy: I was never the one they worried about, so I was never the one they helped.
I built my life without their safety net. I’m proud of that. But knowing exactly where I stood all along still aches sometimes.
