My younger sister, Emma, was born two months prematurely, came out bluer than a Smurf, and spent the first three years of her life hooked up to tubes and machines. Naturally, my parents were super protective of her. They’d stay by her side, buy every toy she wanted, and demand I ditch hanging out with friends to babysit her. At first, I thought this was right. She was my chronically ill baby sister.
But then she got older. She got healthier. She no longer needed tubes or machines and could live normally. However, by this point, she had learned that being “sick” got her whatever she wanted, whether that be materialistic things or just sympathy and attention.
It started with her headaches, mysteriously coming back whenever she was doing homework. My parents would take the homework away and replace it with ice cream. By the time Emma turned eleven and I was sixteen, she had perfected her act. And that really bothered me, because her pain only struck during my moments.
When I made varsity soccer, she developed mysterious stomach cramps that required my parents to leave my first game early. When I got accepted into college, she collapsed during my celebration dinner, and we spent the night in the ER, where doctors found nothing wrong.
The worst part was how she’d smirk at me when our parents weren’t looking. She even practiced her pained faces in the mirror. I tried showing my parents once, but Emma had already told them I was jealous of the attention she “needed” for her condition.
My boyfriend, Jake, lasted eight months before Emma got to him. She created fake screenshots of messages where I supposedly called her a faker and wished she would just die already. The breakup happened at a coffee shop. Jake slid his phone across the table, showing me the “evidence” Emma had compiled. He said he couldn’t be with someone who treated their sick sister so cruelly. Shortly after, Emma texted me a selfie, wearing the hoodie Jake had given me.
That was my breaking point. For years, I had watched her steal everything. So, I started watching her closely. Way more closely than anyone ever had. And I noticed a pattern.
Every time she was “in pain,” she always grabbed her right side. Whether it was her head or her kidney, always the right side. She always called specifically for Mom. She always rated her pain between 8 and 10. And she always recovered in exactly 2 to 3 hours, just long enough to ruin whatever I had planned.
Once I knew this, I developed my plan. And last Sunday, it went down better than I ever could have hoped for.
We were having our monthly family dinner, with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. Twenty minutes before dinner, I went up to the bathroom and recorded a video. In the video, I explained that I was about to make a fake announcement about getting a promotion. I predicted exactly how Emma would react: she would wait for the applause to die down, then grab her right side and whimper for Mom. She would rate her pain as an 8, 9, or 10. She would need to lie down immediately, and she would ask Mom to take her to the hospital if the pain didn’t get better within 20 minutes.
At dinner, I stood up and clinked my glass. Once I had everyone’s attention, I announced that I had just been promoted with a huge raise.
Everyone applauded and congratulated me. Uncles patted my back, cousins hugged me. My mother had tears of pride in her eyes. The sound of clapping echoed through the dining room, mixed with congratulations and jokes about how I could finally pay my own bills. Uncle Roberto made a joke about me becoming the rich niece of the family, while Grandma was already planning out loud how I could help with her medications.
I kept the smile on my face, waving and thanking everyone, but my eyes were fixed on Emma.
She was sitting at the other end of the long table, between my cousin Marcus and Aunt Sandra, absent-mindedly playing with the mashed potatoes on her plate. For a moment, she almost seemed genuinely happy for me. Almost. But I knew her too well. I saw when something changed in her expression. It was subtle, as it always was: a small contraction around the eyes, a slight stiffening of the shoulders. She looked around the table, noticing how all attention was focused on me, how people were really excited about my achievement, how I was shining.
And then, it began.
First, she stopped eating. She let her fork drop onto her plate with a low clink. Aunt Sandra asked if she was okay, but Emma just shook her head with a forced smile, one she used when she wanted to appear brave despite the pain.
I continued talking with Uncle Pedro about the details of the promotion, lying shamelessly about responsibilities I didn’t have and a salary that didn’t exist. But part of me was timing it. 3… 2… 1…
Like a Swiss watch, she brought her hand to the right side of her abdomen.
The first moan was almost inaudible, a low sigh. But Emma knew exactly how to project her voice so it seemed like she was trying to hide something. My cousin Marcus, who was beside her, stopped mid-story. “Emma, everything okay there?”
“It’s nothing,” she murmured, but loud enough for at least half the table to hear. Her voice had that specific tone: brave but with a hint of vulnerability. “Just a little pain.”
And so began the show I had watched so many times. Aunt Sandra immediately turned completely toward Emma. “What kind of pain, dear? Where does it hurt?”
Emma curved slightly in her chair, a perfect, calculated performance. Not too dramatic to seem fake, just enough to show real discomfort. “It’s… It’s here, on the right side,” she said, pressing her hand against her flank. “It came out of nowhere.”
I watched the change happen in real-time. Conversations lowered, glances turned toward Emma. My promotion, minutes ago the center of attention, began to disappear into the background, replaced by the automatic family concern.
Mom, who was beside me laughing, suddenly stopped. That expression I knew so well began to take over her face: the maternal panic that Emma knew how to invoke with surgical precision. “Emma! What happened, my love?” Mom was already halfway up from her chair.
Emma raised her eyes to her. Always to Mom first, never to Dad. I had noticed this pattern years ago. “Mom, it’s hurting quite a bit,” she whispered, her voice trembling just the right amount.
Dad, as always, went into problem-solving mode. “What kind of pain? Cramps, burning, stabbing?”
“It’s a dull pain,” Emma answered, closing her eyes as if concentrating. “But really strong. And it’s getting worse.”
Grandma crossed herself. Uncle Roberto frowned. Cousin Carla was already asking if anyone had medicine. The attention of the entire room had completely shifted.
“On a scale of 1 to 10?” Dad asked, already grabbing the car keys. This question had become a sacred ritual.
Emma paused, another brilliant touch. “It’s… It’s an eight,” she said finally. “Maybe a nine.”
Of course it was. Never less than eight. Never ten, that would be too dramatic. Always between 8 and 9, alarming but not suspicious.
I watched the entire family dynamic reorganize around Emma’s pain.
“Mom, I think… I think I need to lie down,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. And then she did that thing that always made me want to scream. She looked directly at me, just for a second, when she was sure no one else was looking. And she smiled. A small, almost imperceptible smile. The smile of someone who had just scored a goal.
“Maybe we should take her to the hospital,” Mom said, already standing up completely. “Sarah, can you drive? I’m too nervous.”
It was at that moment that I felt something snap inside me. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was something colder, more calculated. Everyone stood up, preparing to transform my night into another rush to the ER.
I stood up too, but instead of grabbing my purse, I grabbed my phone.
“Wait,” I said, my voice calmer than I felt. “Before we go running to the hospital, there’s something you all need to see.”
Emma looked at me, and for the first time, I detected a hint of suspicion, maybe even fear. “Sarah, this isn’t the time for this,” she said, her voice still weak and suffering. “I’m in a lot of pain.”
“I know exactly how much pain you’re feeling,” I replied, unlocking my phone. “And I know exactly when it’s going to pass.”
Aunt Sandra frowned. “Sarah, what do you mean by that?”
I held the phone in the air. “I recorded a video twenty minutes ago. You’re going to want to watch this.”
Emma went completely still. Her hand was still stuck to her right side, but something had changed. It was as if she realized the ground was moving under her feet.
I looked directly at Emma, seeing the exact moment she understood something was terribly wrong. I said, “A video that’s going to explain a lot,” and pressed play.
My voice came out clear and firm from the phone’s speaker: “It’s 6:40 PM on Sunday. In twenty minutes, I’m going to make a false announcement about a promotion. When I do this, Emma will wait for the applause to finish, then she’ll hold the right side of her body and call for Mom. She’ll rate the pain as 8 or 9. She’ll ask to lie down, and if she follows the pattern, she’ll suggest going to the hospital in exactly fifteen minutes.”
The silence in the room was so dense I could hear the wall clock ticking. All eyes turned to Emma, who was completely petrified.
My recorded voice continued mercilessly: “She always holds the right side. No matter what type of pain it is—head, stomach, kidney—always the right side. Always calls specifically for Mom first. And she always recovers in two to three hours, just enough time to ruin any important moment of mine.”
Grandma was the first to find her voice. “Emma… is this… is this true?”
Emma tried to recover. “I… I don’t know what Sarah is talking about. I’m really in pain. Don’t you believe me?”
“I’m not done yet,” I said, pausing the first video. “That was just the appetizer.” I navigated to the next folder on my phone, a collection I had meticulously compiled. “Do you want to see what really happened at high school graduation?”
“Sarah, stop this!” Emma whispered, but her voice had lost all its theatrical fragility. Now it sounded sharp, almost threatening.
I played the next video. It was security camera footage from the school. The image showed Emma in a side hallway, alone. She checked her phone, then looked around to make sure no one was watching, and started practicing. Alone in the hallway, my sister was rehearsing expressions of pain. She frowned, brought her hand to her chest, made different grimaces in the reflection of the glass window.
“My God,” Aunt Sandra murmured, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Wait, there’s more,” I said. “Remember when Jake broke up with me? When he said I was cruel to my sick sister?”
Emma went pale. “Sarah, don’t.”
“These are the original messages she sent to Jake, pretending to be me,” I showed the screenshots I had recovered. “Look at the dates and times. She waited for me to leave the house to use my computer and create fake accounts.” The messages were cruel, saying horrible things about Emma that I would never think, let alone write.
Dad took my phone with trembling hands, his expression growing darker with each line.
“Emma,” Mom said, her voice a broken whisper. “This can’t be true.”
“But it is,” I said, feeling a dark satisfaction. “And there’s more.”
I moved to an audio recording. Emma’s voice came out clear from the phone: “It’s really easy, Bea. Mom gets desperate if I say it’s a headache on the right side. And it always works better when Sarah is having a good day. Then everyone feels sorry for me and gets irritated with her for being insensitive.”
The silence that followed was deadly.
“OKAY! OKAY, DAMN IT!” Emma finally exploded. “YOU WANT THE TRUTH? I FAKED IT! Yes, I faked it a few times! But you don’t understand!” Tears started rolling, but now they were tears of anger, of frustration, of being caught. “Do you think it’s easy being perfect Sarah’s sister? Sarah the smart one, Sarah the popular one, Sarah who never does anything wrong! Do you know what it’s like to grow up in her shadow?!”
“So you decided to sabotage me?” I replied coldly. “Destroy my relationships, ruin my important moments, make everyone think I’m a cruel and insensitive sister?”
“BECAUSE YOU HAD EVERYTHING!” Emma screamed, all pretense of sickness gone. “You always had everything! And me? I was just the sister who almost died as a baby! The only way you’d pay attention to me was when I was sick!”
“But you weren’t sick,” Dad said, his voice low but loaded with deep disappointment. “You were lying, for years, and sabotaging your sister’s life.”
“There’s more,” I said, my voice like ice. “Tell them about the money, Emma.”
“What money?” Mom asked.
“The money you gave her to buy medicine,” I continued. “Those expensive medicines the doctor supposedly prescribed. The ones she said health insurance didn’t cover.”
Dad went livid. “Emma, tell me you didn’t.”
“She spent it on makeup, clothes, going out with friends,” I said. “I have the bank statements. I have photos of the purchases she posted on Instagram. You gave her over $3,000 in the last six months.”
“$3,000?!” Grandma repeated, incredulous.
“Which she spent on everything except medicine,” I completed. “Because she didn’t need any medicine. Because she was never sick.”
Emma began to sob, but now no one moved to comfort her.
“Fifteen years,” Mom whispered. “Fifteen years of believing, worrying, canceling plans, losing sleep.”
“And I lost fifteen years of my life,” I added. “Fifteen years of being treated as the cruel sister, fifteen years watching my important moments get destroyed, fifteen years being blamed for not having enough patience with the sick sister.”
Emma raised her face. “Sarah… I… I’m sorry…”
“Now you’re sorry?” I said. “Now that you’ve been caught?”
“There’s still one more thing,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting directly in front of Emma. “The last piece of the puzzle. You still don’t know about Mike.”
The name fell like a bomb. Emma went white as a sheet.
“Mike, your ex-boyfriend?” Mom asked. “But you broke up because he moved.”
“No,” I said, my eyes fixed on Emma. “We broke up because my dear little sister hit on him. And he… well, he fell for her.”
I held up my phone and showed the screenshots from Mike’s phone. Lingerie photos. Provocative photos. Messages saying how she always had a crush on him.
Aunt Sandra made a sound of disgust. “Emma, that’s so low.”
I stood up, feeling years of anger finally finding its voice. “NO! You simply can’t stand to see me happy! You can’t stand to see me have something you don’t! You want to be me, Emma, but here’s the truth that’s going to hurt more than any lie you’ve ever told!”
“You will never be me. You will never even come close. You know what the difference between us is? When I want something, I work for it. I deserve what I have. You? You only know how to destroy, lie, manipulate. You are an empty person, desperately trying to steal someone else’s life because you don’t have the courage to build your own.”
“And now,” I turned to the family, “you all know. You all see her for what she really is. A liar, a manipulator. You, who always took her side, who always made me feel like the villain. I hope you’re proud. Because this is the daughter, the granddaughter, the niece you raised.”
Grandma was crying. “Sarah… we didn’t know…”
“Of course you didn’t know,” I replied coldly. “Because you never wanted to know. It was easier to believe I was the bad sister than to admit your little darling was a demon.”
I looked at Emma one last time. She seemed to have shrunk in her chair, small and pathetic. “Congratulations, Emma. You finally got what you always wanted. You’re the center of attention. Everyone is looking at you. Too bad it’s for all the wrong reasons.”
I grabbed my purse and walked toward the door. “Oh, and Emma, when you’re alone in your room tonight, crying about how your life fell apart, I want you to remember something.” I turned to look at her one last time. “You did this to yourself. Every lie, every manipulation, every moment of pure evil. You chose this. And now, you’re going to live with the consequences.”
“Where are you going?” Mom asked, tears streaming down her face.
“Away from here,” I replied. “Away from this toxic family, this sick dynamic, and especially away from her.” I pointed at Emma without even looking in her direction. “I’m going where I should have gone years ago. I’m going to build a life where people like her can’t reach me.”
The door slammed behind me, but not before I heard Emma start screaming. Not from fake pain this time, but from real agony. The agony of finally having to face who she really was.
And for the first time in years, the sound of her pain didn’t make me feel guilty. It made me feel free.