Chapter 1: The Family’s Ugly Secret

Looks-wise, the older daughter can't hold a candle to the younger one.

The words stung. Even before I saw them, I felt it. My mom posted a side-by-side photo of me and my sister on Facebook, like she wanted everyone to judge us, side by side. Seriously?

In the picture, I have hooded eyes and a turned-up nose. My hair looks limp, and there's a kind of defensiveness in my expression. I recognize it now, after seeing it in so many old photos.

My sister, meanwhile, has wide, bright eyes and a dazzling smile. She was the kind of kid strangers stopped in the grocery store just to compliment. She always was.

"Wow, she's so ugly, LOL."

During after-school study hall, an old, unflattering photo of me from elementary school was turned into a meme in the class group chat. My phone buzzed. My stomach dropped, even before I opened it.

It was a candid shot, not my best moment. My face was caught mid-blink, mouth open, like someone had just yelled my name from across the playground.

Hooded eyes, a turned-up nose, my hair a mess—just back from a summer at Grandma Carol's farm in rural Ohio. I still smelled like hay and loneliness. My skin was pale and blotchy, and I was wearing a shapeless, faded winter coat that probably belonged to someone else first.

My sister's photo, though, was taken at a fancy photography studio—

A heavily airbrushed princess portrait. She wore a tiara and a dress that shimmered, and the lighting made her eyes look almost unreal.

Big blue eyes, flawless skin, a sweet smile. The kind of picture you see in the window of the mall photo shop, advertising "dream sessions."

A couple of boys in front whispered, then turned around and made fake gagging faces at me. One of them pinched his nose, the other stuck out his tongue. I tried to ignore them, but the laughter echoed off the walls, or maybe just in my head.

"How come your sister's so pretty and you're so ugly?" the girl next to me, Madison, asked. She didn't even bother to lower her voice. The words landed heavy, right in my chest.

That question has haunted me ever since my sister was born. It felt like a mantra, something people repeated without thinking.

It never stops. Not at home. Not at school. Not even from strangers—people who stop to admire my sister and barely glance at me.

People only ever ask me,

Like I could possibly know the answer. Like it's my job to explain away genetics or fate. Yeah, sure. Like I have any say in genetics.

"Where'd those photos come from?"

"Your mom posted them online."

I pulled out my phone and found my mom's account on Instagram. My hands shook a little as I scrolled.

Her username? Savannah's Mom.

Savannah is my sister's name. It's always about her—her achievements, her photos, her milestones. Even the username leaves me out. Always her. Never me.

Every single post was a glamour shot of my sister. Birthday parties, dance recitals, even just Savannah eating pancakes—each one perfectly filtered.

The latest post—already going viral—was a side-by-side comparison of me and my sister.

The caption read: "Thank goodness I had a second daughter—she saved the family genes." My chest tightened. Of course she posted that.

When I clicked in, the description hit me: "My main account's a lost cause, but my backup is blowing up. The older one can't compare to the younger—no matter what angle, Savannah always looks beautiful." My fingers went numb. Wow.

Comments below: "Don't compare them like that, why are you so biased?"

My mom replied: "Just kidding around, it's just a meme."

But on her whole account, aside from that one embarrassing photo of me, every single picture was of my sister. It was like scrolling through a stranger's life.

Not a trace of me to be found. Not even a birthday post, or a blurry shot from a school event.

There was one exception: a family photo from Christmas.

I had been cropped out. There was just my arm in the corner, like a ghost.

Back then, my mom loved using me as the family punchline.

"Ellie's just not likable—she's quiet and awkward, not sweet and lively like Savannah."

The relatives all laughed, then had me stand next to my sister for comparison. I remember that feeling—being paraded around. Like a before-and-after photo nobody wanted.

"It's true, one's like an angel, and the other like..."

They didn't finish the sentence. They didn't have to. That silence was worse than anything they could've said.

My sister, hearing this, ran over to my mom, threw her arms around her neck, and giggled. She knew exactly how to play the room. She soaked up every bit of attention.

The whole room was so lively, so cheerful. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, but me? I felt like I was standing outside, looking in.

No one cared how I felt. I might as well have been invisible.

I did what I always did: forced a smile.

It was a habit, a kind of self-defense—playing the clown.

I tried to act unbothered, like none of it mattered. Like I was in on the joke, even when I was the punchline.

As if, in situations like that, if I didn't smile, I'd be the one being rude. Like it was my job to keep everyone comfortable. No matter what.

But the ache inside wasn't something I could just suppress. It gnawed at me, quiet and constant. Like hunger.

They talked and laughed about new outfits. I just watched the city lights flicker by, feeling myself drift farther away with every mile.

My sister came over and tugged my arm. "Ellie, are you upset?"

"Ignore her," my mom said from the front seat, glancing back at me. "She's been sulking ever since we left. What's there to be mad about?" Sulking. That's what she called it.

"Who knows who she takes after, always throwing a fit." She just kept going, nonstop. "It's Christmas, everyone should be happy, but you're the only one sulking—who are you trying to impress?"

"Don't be mad, Ellie!" My sister shook my hand. "Don't upset Mom."

"Just ignore her—so I said a few words, big deal?" My mom frowned, visibly annoyed. "Was I wrong? Can't you learn from your sister? Be a little more mature, a little more open-minded?"

"Do you have to talk about me in front of everyone?"

I tried to argue, but my mom got even more worked up. Her voice rose, sharp enough to make my dad grip the steering wheel tighter.

"Am I not telling the truth? You have a bad attitude—who else can you blame?"

She turned away, as if she couldn't be bothered. "If you're ugly and your personality sucks too, then there's no hope." That one stung.

"If I'm so ugly, isn't it because you gave birth to me?"

"Then how come your sister turned out pretty?" she sneered. "Who else is to blame but you, for not picking better genes in the womb?"

"I..."

"Enough, cut it out. So annoying."

My dad finally stepped in, sighing like he wished he could be anywhere else.

But not to defend me—just because he was annoyed. I was used to that by now.

No one cared how I felt. Not really.

Every time my sister and I fought, I was always the one who got scolded. It was like a law of the universe. Of course I was.

"You're the older one—can't you act your age? Don't you know how hard we work?"

When I was first brought back from Grandma Carol's, my mom didn't want to spend money on new dresses for me, so I wore my sister's hand-me-downs. They still smelled like her. Like I was just borrowing her life.

Whenever I wore them, my sister would throw a fit, saying I stole her things.

"Go back to Grandma's—we don't want you here!"

She'd rather tear them up than let me have them. Sometimes she'd just hide them, just to watch me scramble.

I'd get mad and fight back. I couldn't help it, even though I knew how it would end.

She'd burst into tears, and just like that, the world was on her side.

Once she cried, my mom would show up.

No questions, just a slap.

"Why are you always bullying your sister? Why are you so jealous?"

"She wouldn't let me wear her clothes."

"Oh, playing the victim now? Who taught you that? Why can't you just pick something your sister doesn't like?"

"I don't want to wear her old clothes."

"Then go make your own money!" She yanked my ear. "You can't do anything, so you have no right to talk."

Sixth grade. Did she even care?

How could I possibly make my own money? Babysitting wasn't an option, and I was too young for any real job.

She never gave me a chance. I was always "immature." Easier to blame me than to listen.

She'd even talk me down to my dad when he got home, making me out to be all kinds of terrible. Listing my faults like a grocery list.

"She wasn't raised by me—picked up all sorts of bad habits."

It wasn't my choice. They sent me to Grandma Carol's so they could work in the city.

Yet somehow, that became my fault. Like everything else.

Anyone with eyes could see her favoritism. Even the neighbors gave me that look—like they felt sorry for me.

Even my sister would use it against me when we fought. She’d throw it in my face, like a secret weapon.

She'd smirk: "Crying so ugly—no wonder Mom doesn't like you."