Working late again, I was scrolling through my phone at the subway station when I saw my sister’s post. “Who cares if I can’t find a job? I’m young! This is the time to be wild!” The post included a screenshot of a thirty-thousand-dollar transfer from our parents, accompanied by a text message from them. “Sweetheart, you’ll have the rest of your life to work. Use this time, while you’re young, to go see the world.” I stared at the screen for a long time. A drowning sensation tightened in my chest, stealing my breath. That’s when I walked out of the subway station and sent a text to Evelyn Reed. “I’m in. I’ll take the overseas post.” 1 Right as I saw Mia’s post, my work friend—who had just quit—was saying her goodbyes. “Zoey, my parents said this soul-crushing job was going to give me a heart attack, so they told me to just come home and be a ‘full-time daughter.’” She had the same blissful smile as my sister, Mia, in her post. “But you’re from around here, Zoey. Why are you pushing yourself so hard? You should really take a break!” I stared blankly at Mia’s post, unable to form a response to my friend’s question. When I graduated from college, my field was already in a downturn. I was just like Mia is now—pounding the pavement every day, but coming up empty. Back then, a heavy cloud of disappointment hung over our house. My father would chain-smoke, the look in his eyes screaming that I was a failure. My mother would sneak into my room at night, crying, telling me they had no money, that they were in debt, that they couldn’t support me. She suggested I go work at the local factory; three thousand a month was better than nothing. I believed their tears. I thought I had no other choice, no safety net. So for years, even when the overtime pushed me to the brink of a breakdown, I gritted my teeth and endured. But it turned out they could be a safety net. They just weren’t one for me. When their other daughter faced the exact same situation, they didn’t hesitate to hand her thirty thousand dollars to go on vacation. The announcement for the last train echoed through the nearly empty station. I didn’t get on it. I followed the handful of other people up the stairs and out into the night. The irony wasn’t lost on me when, just as I unlocked a city bike, a text from Mia came through. “Hey sis, can you grab me a bowl of wonton soup from Mrs. Gable’s on your way home?” I took a deep breath and typed back, my face a stony mask. “You have thirty thousand dollars and you’re asking me, the one scraping by, to buy you soup?” Silence from her end. A bitter smile touched my lips, but my eyes burned with unshed tears. Growing up, my parents always told me that Mia was my other half, my closest companion in the world. They taught me to protect her, to love her. But whenever Mia was upset, I was the one who got cut, slowly and quietly. Just like now. My mother’s number flashed on my screen. Her calls always began with a deep, dramatic sigh, followed by the pretense of a mother trying to be fair. “Zoey, did you get angry with your sister?” she began. “She didn’t even finish her fruit before she ran to her room and locked the door.” A pause. “How about this, you pick up two bowls of soup on your way back, and I’ll pay you for them?” I fought it, I really did, but the words spilled out. “Mom, do you really think this is about a bowl of soup? Is there any point in playing dumb?” The line was quiet for only a second before my father’s angry voice boomed through the phone. “Zoey, what the hell is wrong with you? We ask you to bring home some soup and you throw a fit and make everyone miserable!” He took a breath, his voice dripping with manufactured righteousness. “It was your mother who remembered how you used to beg for Mrs. Gable’s wontons when you were little! Your sister was trying to do something nice for you, to surprise you!” I leaned against the cold metal of the bike, the tears finally breaking free, my voice catching in a sob. “Yes, I wanted them when I was a kid. But do you remember what happened after I begged for them?” 2 Mrs. Gable’s wonton stand had been a fixture on our block for decades. A big bowl, twenty-five wontons, cost seven dollars back then. Every evening, the rich, savory aroma would drift up to our apartment. I would grip the balcony railing, inhaling deeply, my mouth watering. One day, I tentatively asked my mother if I could have a bowl if I got first place on my final exams. She smiled and agreed. But when I presented them with my perfect report card, my father took off his belt and beat me without a word. He yelled that I was selfish and greedy. That the family was struggling, and here I was, demanding fancy food. That I was destined to be a beggar. I cried for my mother, but she just gathered my little sister in her arms and disappeared into her bedroom. After that day, I hated wontons. Even when my mom made them at home, I’d lie and say I was on a diet, never touching a single one. And now, they were telling me it was my favorite food. Years of buried pain came pouring out. “Mia was the one who loved Mrs. Gable’s!” I sobbed into the phone. “If she even hinted she wanted some, you’d run out and get it for her in the middle of the night! What about me?” “You feel sorry for her because she’ll have to work for the rest of her life, so you give her a fortune to go have fun. What about me?” “I’m tired, too! I take the last train home every single night! I want to quit and rest for a while, too! But what did you tell me? You said you couldn’t afford to support me, that I had to make it on my own!” “It’s always Mia, Mia, Mia! She’s your precious baby who can’t suffer a single hardship! So what am I? The one who’s supposed to just take it?!” I went on and on, losing control, only realizing after a long moment that the other end of the line was completely silent. Stunned, I slowly lowered the phone. The screen was black. They’d hung up on me long ago. All my anguish, scattered into the night wind, as meaningless as all the tears I’d shed that no one had ever seen. I wiped my eyes and unlocked my phone, finally sending the text I’d been hesitating over for weeks. My boss’s reply was almost immediate: “Zoey, you will not regret this decision.” That night, I checked into the best hotel in the city and paid for a month upfront. It was expensive. I’d never spent money on myself like that before. But unlike the guilt and anxiety that usually came with any purchase, this time I signed the bill with a profound sense of calm. As expected, my phone remained silent all night. Not a single person from my family cared whether I came home or not. At six the next morning, I went back to the apartment to pack. When I opened the door, the living room was a mess. On the table were several familiar take-out containers. The leftover wonton soup had turned cloudy and sour overnight. I could perfectly picture my parents going downstairs to buy it, could see them presenting it to Mia with cheerful smiles, coddling her, making her happy. A bitter sneer twisted my lips. I went straight to my room and packed. As I was dragging my suitcase out, Mia emerged from her room, yawning. I instinctively tried to hide the suitcase behind me, but she just grunted sleepily in my direction and shuffled into the living room. A few seconds later, her voice, shrill with indignation, pierced the quiet. “Zoey! Are you serious? You didn’t even make breakfast?!” “Just because I asked for a bowl of soup? Are you really going to be this petty?” I stood in my doorway, watching her face flush with anger, and said nothing. Slowly, her gaze started to shift, and her fingers began to fidget with the hem of her nightgown. It was her tell. She knew she was in the wrong. This wasn’t the first time my parents had shown their favoritism. As the beneficiary, Mia wasn’t stupid. In the beginning, when I showed my hurt, she would nervously use her saved-up allowance to buy me little gifts. But over time, she got used to it. She started to believe that as the older sister, it was my natural duty to give way to her. Just like now. She tilted her chin up, her gaze defiant. “The money Mom and Dad gave me is only what you make in a year. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” Her voice started to wobble, her eyes turning red with self-pity. “I’m your sister! You’re really going to hold this little thing against me? Are you even my sister anymore?!” I leaned against the doorframe, watching her performance calmly. “Mia, just because I’m the older sister, does that mean I’m born to sacrifice for you?” She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with tears, ready to overflow. But I was done. I turned to leave with my suitcase. Just then, the master bedroom door opened, and heavy footsteps approached. “What are you two yelling about so early in the morning?” 3 As if on cue, Mia burst into tears, the floodgates opening. “Dad! Zoey is being so mean! She was horrible to me last night, and she’s still at it this morning!” “So you gave me some money for a trip! Why is she treating me like this?!” She sobbed dramatically, as if she were the most wronged person in the world. I frowned, about to speak. The next second, a heavy slap cracked across my face. “Zoey! Are you done yet? I put up with your nonsense all last night!” my father roared. “I asked you to bring home a bowl of soup, and you act like we asked you to move a mountain!” “It’s my money! I’ll give it to whoever I damn well please! Why do you have to make such a scene?” My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning. For a moment, I was too stunned to react. My mother rushed over and pulled at his arm, her voice carrying that same tired, false neutrality. “What are you doing, hitting her?!” Then she turned to me. “And you, Zoey. We’re family. Why do you have to count every little thing?” Mia’s sobs subsided. She stood to the side, watching me with a smug little pout. “Yeah,” she mumbled. I ran my tongue over my numb cheek, looking at the united front of three against one. They all stared at me with the same mix of disappointment and anger, as if I had committed some unforgivable crime. Was it really so wrong to call out their blatant favoritism? In a daze, I remembered this had all happened before. That time, it was about college allowances. They gave me a thousand a month, and even then, I had to humiliate myself by begging for it, only to be called a spendthrift. Eventually, I got a part-time job and never asked again. They were happy to let it slide, never once asking if I needed money. I always thought it was because we were poor. Until Mia went to college and let it slip that her allowance was three thousand a month. That night was another epic battle. Mia cried. I cried. But I’d forgotten: my sister’s tears were precious. They earned her hugs and comfort and anything she wanted. My tears only earned me insults and slaps, followed by my mother’s teary-eyed question of when I was finally going to grow up. Just like today, my father had slapped me and asked if I wouldn’t be satisfied until I had torn the family apart. His words, his disappointed glare, had crushed me into silence. I had swallowed that injustice, choked it down with my tears. But the wound never closed. It was always there, raw and open. This thirty thousand dollars had ripped it wide open again, and the pain was making me lose my mind. When I came back to myself, the hallway was empty. They had taken a sniffling Mia out, comforting her. Once again, I was left standing alone, a ridiculous, pathetic figure. I took one last, stiff look at the room I had lived in for twenty-eight years and closed the door behind me. I didn’t look back. Over two weeks later, two transfers hit my bank account.
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