Blurb：
When Emily takes her mother cherry picking, she never expects the outing to turn into a painful confrontation about family dynamics. Her mother’s sudden accusation cuts deep: “You’re stingy.” Despite Emily handling the entire hospital crisis when their father fractured his arm—paying deposits, arranging private aides, and managing everything—her mother fixates on one moment: the $60 lunch Sophie paid for.
This story explores the complex relationship between sisters Emily and Sophie, where parental favoritism creates lasting wounds. While Emily bears the financial burdens silently, Sophie receives constant praise for small gestures. Their mother’s blatant preference for Sophie highlights themes of unfair treatment, emotional neglect, and the invisible labor of responsible children.
Readers will relate to Emily’s struggle with ungrateful parents, financial manipulation, and the heartbreak of never being good enough despite her sacrifices. The narrative delves into family conflict, money tensions, and the quest for parental approval in a household where fairness is never guaranteed.
Content：
Taking Mom cherry picking, she suddenly spoke up.
You know, you can be quite tight with your money.
I looked up, a bit slow on the uptake, staring at her in confusion.
Why would you say that?
You might have money, but sometimes you’re really not as considerate as your sister.
Let’s be blunt, you’re stingy.
Mom emphasized the point, repeating it with clear indignation.
“Sure, you seem generous sometimes, always giving me cash, buying the household essentials, but you’ve never taken me out for a meal.”
“Your sister’s different, she always picks up the check.”
It suddenly clicked. So that was the issue. That lunch Sophie paid for two weeks ago was still a thorn in Mom’s side, unresolved.
Two weeks ago, Dad was suddenly in a car accident, fracturing his arm.
I rushed him to the ER, ran around paying fees, hiring a private aide.
By the time Sophie arrived, I’d pretty much handled everything.
So Sophie treated us to lunch at the diner near the hospital.
Mom’s expression turned sour right then. She hinted, not so subtly, “You’re the older sister.”
Sighing, I resignedly pulled out my wallet. It was just a meal, barely sixty dollars. I really didn’t want Mom stewing such a small amount.
But Sophie was quicker. She waved her phone playfully. “Already taken care of!”
Mom was immediately aghast. “Sophie! Where did you get the money? The Uber here alone cost over a hundred! With me here, and your sister, why on earth would you pay?”
Sophie, worried I’d be upset, shot me a quick, apologetic glance with a helpless little smile.
Then she looped her arm through Mom’s, coaxing her.
“Mom, it doesn’t matter who pays. The hospital deposit, the private aide – wasn’t that all Emily? It’s only fair I cover the small stuff.”
“Once the insurance settles, all that money will be reimbursed anyway. Emily’s just fronting it, it’s not like she won’t get it back,” Mom muttered stubbornly.
But in reality, when Mom did receive the insurance settlement, she never paid me back.
That was fine, honestly. Dad was sick, it was only right I contributed. I didn’t feel slighted.
What hurt was that Mom kept bringing up that meal Sophie paid for.
“She shouldn’t have paid. Her job is so unstable – freelance works is up and down. She can barely support herself.”
“Lunch was Sophie’s treat. Honestly, Emily, you really lucked out because of your sister.”
I spent thousands, Sophie spent sixty, and somehow I was the one benefiting from her?
I was on the verge of snapping back when I saw Dad shaking his head at me.
For the sake of my poor, injured father, I didn’t argue at his bedside.
In just one afternoon, Mom managed to tell everyone she knew – via phone calls, in-person chats, video calls – about Sophie paying for lunch.
The whole world knew Sophie had treated.
And me?
I strained to listen, only catching Mom murmuring, “The younger one’s just more thoughtful, you know? Knew we were starving and took us right out.” Or, “Emily was there all morning, never once thought I might be hungry, didn’t even offer to grab me a bagel.”
I couldn’t take it anymore.
Making an excuse, I turned and left.
Tears streamed down my face.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought she might be hungry, I was simply too swamped to think.
Admissions, tests, payments, dealing with the police report, finding an aide… I hadn’t had a moment to breathe.
I’ve always known Mom played favorites.
In college, she promised Sophie and me each a thousand bucks a month.
But for me, covering textbooks, supplies, food, everything… it was never enough. Sophie always had money left over.
Mom constantly berated me for being less sensible than Sophie, for not caring about them, for not being frugal enough. Asking for money meant a lecture.
The months I pinched pennies desperately, managing not to overspend, Mom wouldn’t send the money on time.
She’d delay it for days, calling it “teaching me financial responsibility.”
I lived in constant anxiety, praying each month the money would come on schedule, but never daring to ask.
Mom always shut me down, “How come Sophie manages? She never pesters me.”
Yeah, I didn’t understand either.
I scrimped on everything, even counting every pad and tampon.
Why was it never enough?
Years later, chatting with Sophie, I found out the truth.
The official allowance was a thousand, but Mom bought and mailed Sophie everything else – books, makeup, snacks.
Even her campus meal plan was paid upfront each semester, loaded with over a thousand bucks.
Sophie’s allowance was pure pocket money she struggled to spend.
Me?
I got nothing extra.
Everything came out of that thousand.
One Thanksgiving, Mom brought out her special honey-glazed ham for everyone.
Sophie and I both loved it.
As we were leaving, Mom packed a huge bag for Sophie.
For me?
Not a word.
Dad, feeling awkward, piped up, “Pack some ham for Emily too.”
Mom pursed her lips.
“What ‘ham’? It’s a honey-glazed spiral ham.”
She spoke slowly, her eyes settling on me.
Hesitantly, she asked, “Do you… want some?”
Fighting back tears, I shook my head hard.
“No, I don’t really like it.”
She visibly relaxed, smiling at Dad.
“See? I told you she wouldn’t want it. She’s so picky, she’d never appreciate something like this.”
It hurt so much.
I hurried out to start the car.
Mom chased after me, her earlier reluctance gone, beaming as she thrust the bag of ham into my hands.
“Take it. Your dad insisted.”
“If you don’t, he’ll just fight with me about it.”
I sighed quietly and took it.
Getting home, I realized it wasn’t hers at all.
Hers was the good, honey-glazed end.
What she gave me was a container of dry, overcooked pieces from the bottom of the pan.
It was the batch she’d complained about while carving, “Oh, this part got a bit burnt. Didn’t even want to serve it. Guess I’ll find a use for it.”
Oh. So I was the chosen recipient.
And now, Mom bringing up Sophie’s paid meal again, I finally snapped.
“Mom, the bedding, sheets, groceries, snacks, toilet paper, even the air conditioner and TV – what haven’t I bought for the house?”
“I give you thousands in cash for holidays.”
“Have you ever added that up?”
“Sarah pays sixty bucks and you can’t stop harping on it, repeating how I benefited.”
“If we’re keeping score on who’s getting the short end of the stick, I’ll gladly let Sophie ‘win’ and take the ‘loss’ myself. How about that?”
My voice was thick with unshed tears, ragged.
Mom looked startled, her eyes wide.
“Why are you so emotionally volatile? It was just casual conversation! Why blow up like this?”
“I’m not educated like you, I don’t know what to say or not say! How dare you criticize your own mother?”
“I did say you give me money and buy things! I only meant that when it comes to meals out, you’re not as thoughtful as your sister, not as attentive.”
“Was I wrong?”
“For God’s sake, can’t I say anything around you anymore?” she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation.
“Don’t bother inviting me out again. I’m out here sweating buckets, spending my day with you, and this is the thanks I get?”
“You’re like walking on eggshells, just waiting to blow up. What did I even do to you?”
“I was having a perfectly good mood until you started shouting.” The look on her face was pure contempt.
She snatched up the baskets of cherries we’d picked and marched toward the parking lot.
From a distance, I heard her tell the farm owner, “My daughter will pay,” as she walked to the roadside to wave down a taxi.
My heart was full of frustration and humiliation. I deeply regretted asking her out.
Truth was, I hadn’t even initiated it. She called yesterday complaining she wanted fresh cherries. I offered to pick some up, but she insisted she wanted them “right from the branch.”
So I rearranged my schedule, found an orchard with last-minute reservations, skipped my own breakfast, and drove her out here.
And now, after one single argument, she was abandoning me.
In the past, I would have told myself she’s old, getting forgetful, don’t take it personally.
But this time, after all the recent slights and the sheer unfairness of it all, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I let the resentment wash over me. I was done folding.
There was one lingering thought, however .
A month ago, Mom mentioned wanting me to take her to buy a robot vacuum.
She kept saying sweeping hurt her back, how she’d throw it out permanently.
She said she was waiting for the weather to cool down before going to look at them.
While she hadn’t said it outright, based on past experience, if I took her, I would be the one paying.
We’d had disagreements before.
But I was always the one to cave first, to make the apologetic phone call.
This time, I suddenly wondered, What if I didn’t contact her? Didn’t mention taking her shopping? What would she do?
Even though I knew any contact from her would be about the vacuum and not about me, I was still morbidly curious. Would she reach out, even for an appliance?
The answer came quickly.
Three months later, a text came through. It wasn’t what I expected.
“Don’t worry about taking me to get the robot vacuum anymore.”
??[What happened?] I typed back.??
“Everyone says they’re energy hogs. Easily 60?70 dollars on the electric bill every month! That’s nearly a thousand a year! Too expensive. I don’t deserve it.”
My thumbs hovered over the screen. After a pause, I typed a neutral reply,
[Well, it’s your decision. If you’ve changed your mind about buying it, then there’s no point in going.]??
Her iMessage bubble said “typing…” for what felt like an eternity. When I tried to send another message later, I realized I’d been blocked.
The message was clear.
Her indirect “I don’t deserve i” was a performance. She was waiting for me to offer to pay the electricity bill, so she could happily go buy it. I knew it.
I saw the play. And for once, I didn’t take the bait. I dug my heels in.
At this point, I was disheartened and hurt by Mom’s favoritism, but not completely given up.
I wasn’t ready to cut her off financially. Not yet.
What I wanted was to stop her from pretending my contributions didn’t exist.
I needed her to acknowledge every dollar I spent, every errand I ran. I needed her to admit she saw it, felt it, appreciated it.
On the Saturday we were originally supposed to go look at vacuums, Dad called early.
He asked casual as anything, what time I was coming over and if I wanted him to make me some eggs.
I feigned confusion, “Dad? I’m working today. Did you need something?”
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