My sister broke my rib in a fight. I was bleeding. I tried to call the cops, but mom snatched my phone, saying, «It’s just a rib, you’ll ruin her future.» Dad called me a drama queen. They had no idea what I would do next…

This wasn’t just about the rib. This was years, years of being the backup, the afterthought, the one who got blamed when the TV broke, when the phone bill wasn’t paid, when money went missing. This was the story of my life, and for the first time, I was writing the ending.

The cops came. Vanessa locked herself in the bathroom, crying. Mom begged me to make it disappear.

This’ll destroy her future, she pleaded. You should’ve thought about her future the day you left while I couldn’t breathe. They were given one final extension.

48 hours. The day they left, they didn’t even say goodbye. Vanessa stomped out with two garbage bags full of clothes and Mom’s screams behind her.

Dad didn’t look at me. He looked at the floor, like he couldn’t bear to face the daughter he’d spent years ignoring. Once the house was silent, I stood in the middle of the hallway and listened to the quiet.

No slammed doors. No sneers. No Vanessa pretending she was untouchable.

No Mom playing referee with a loaded bias. Just peace. A week later, I started renovations.

Painted over the holes. Got rid of the old furniture. Scrubbed away the memories.

Then, I did something bold. I turned Vanessa’s old room into an art studio. The one thing I was always told would never pay bills.

And then I opened my inbox and finally responded to the offer I had turned down months ago. The full scholarship from the university I deferred. They wanted me back.

And I went. Not with baggage, but with freedom. Months passed.

My art picked up online. I started freelancing for companies Vanessa had once begged to interview with. My professors championed me..