Growing up in our middle-class suburban home in Appleton, Wisconsin, I believed our family was normal. Our house wasn’t fancy, a modest four-bedroom with faded blue siding and a backyard just big enough for weekend barbecues and the occasional badminton game. My father, Richard, worked as an accountant, a man of routine who expected excellence and order. My mother, Diane, ran a small bakery downtown, her perfectionism evident in both her immaculate pastries and her expectations for her daughters. Then there was Tara, my younger sister by three years. From my earliest memories, our relationship existed in the complicated space between love and rivalry. I remember teaching her to tie her shoes, helping with her homework, defending her against neighborhood bullies. But I also remember the smallest slights: the way she’d get the larger piece of cake, the new clothes while I got hand-me-downs, the benefit of the doubt during our childhood squabbles. “Ava should know better” became my parents’ refrain whenever conflicts arose. “She’s the older one.”
I accepted this as truth. I was the responsible one, the serious student with straight A’s who played by the rules. Tara was the social butterfly, charming teachers and neighbors alike with her quick smile and theatrical personality. Where I was reserved, she was outgoing. Where I planned, she improvised. Where I saved my allowance, she spent hers immediately and then somehow convinced our parents she needed more. The pattern established itself early. When Tara broke Mom’s favorite vase at age seven, she claimed I had pushed her into it. I hadn’t been anywhere near her, but my protests fell on deaf ears. When she used my watercolors without permission and ruined them, she cried that I was being mean for not sharing. When items went missing from my room—a bracelet, a special pen, my diary key—questioning Tara resulted in tears and my parents telling me to stop accusing my sister. “Sisters should protect each other,” my grandmother once told me during a summer visit. I took this advice to heart—covering for Tara when she missed curfew, helping her with school projects the night before they were due, editing her essays so she wouldn’t fail English. I believed that’s what family did.
Middle school brought changes. I discovered photography, spending hours capturing Wisconsin’s changing seasons and saving every dollar for better equipment. Tara discovered boys and popularity contests, spending hours on the phone and begging for trendy clothes. Our worlds diverged further, but home remained our common ground, even if that ground felt increasingly uneven. High school accelerated the divide. I joined the newspaper staff and the debate team and maintained my position on the honor roll. College admissions counselors started sending brochures, and my photography won regional recognition. Meanwhile, Tara struggled academically but thrived socially, her circle of friends expanding as she mastered the politics of high school hallways. The small lies continued—money missing from my desk drawer, borrowed clothes returned with stains, messages not delivered. “I forgot,” she’d say with a shrug when confronted. “You’re so uptight, Ava. Not everything is a federal case.”
I remember clearly the night before Tara’s freshman year when she had a meltdown about starting high school. She came to my room past midnight, mascara streaking her face, terrified she wouldn’t fit in. I stayed up until three in the morning, making her laugh, helping her plan her first-day outfit, assuring her she’d find her place. When she hugged me before leaving my room, I felt like the big sister I’d always wanted to be. “You’re the only one who really gets me, Ava,” she whispered. I held that moment close—evidence that beneath the competition and small deceptions, we were still sisters who needed each other. My parents noticed our momentary closeness, too, commenting on how nice it was to see us getting along. For a brief window, it seemed like we might grow into friends as well as sisters.
But as Tara found her footing in high school, things changed again. My achievements became targets for her resentment. When I was named photography editor for the yearbook, Tara rolled her eyes at dinner and said:
“Great, now we’ll have to hear about f-stops and shutter speeds forever.”
When I won a scholarship for a summer writing program, she complained that I got all the opportunities. Still, I never imagined my kindness would become the blueprint for my undoing. The small betrayals were practice runs for what was coming—tests to see what she could get away with, how far she could push before facing consequences. And the answer, it turned out, was much further than anyone should have been able to go.
Junior year started with promise. At sixteen, I was deep into college applications, volunteering at the local library every Saturday, and building my photography portfolio with serious intention. My bedroom walls showcased my evolution as a photographer—landscapes giving way to portraits and street photography that captured the quiet drama of small-town Wisconsin life. My most prized possession sat on my desk, a jar containing $372.18—saved over two years—for a Canon DSLR camera that would elevate my work beyond what the family point-and-shoot could accomplish. Each week, I added dollars from my library job and occasional photography commissions for family Christmas cards or senior portraits.
“You could just ask your parents for the camera,” my best friend Jordan suggested one afternoon as we walked home from school.
Jordan had moved to town the previous year, and we’d bonded over a shared love of music and art. Tall with curly brown hair and an easy laugh, he understood my drive for independence.
“That’s not the point,” I explained. “I want to earn it myself. Besides, they’re already saving for college.”
What I didn’t mention was that any request for the camera would likely be met with suggestions that I split the cost with Tara so she could get something, too. Equality in our house rarely accounted for effort or interest—only outcome.
Jordan became a regular visitor at our house that fall, working on class projects or just hanging out, listening to music in the basement rec room. I noticed Tara finding reasons to join us—bringing snacks, asking homework questions, laughing a bit too loudly at Jordan’s jokes. The attention wasn’t subtle, at least not to me.
“Your sister’s got a thing for your friend,” my mother commented one evening while we washed dishes.
“Jordan’s just being nice,” I said, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
“Well, you should include her more. She looks up to you and your friends.”
This became another refrain. Include Tara. Share with Tara. Consider Tara’s feelings. Meanwhile, my small successes continued to accumulate—an essay published in a teen magazine, a photography honorable mention in a state contest, a perfect score on my SAT. Each accomplishment seemed to darken the shadow Tara felt herself standing in.
Small things began disappearing from my room again. Twenty dollars from my camera fund. A silver bracelet my grandmother had given me. My favorite sweater. When confronted, Tara’s responses grew more elaborate. She hadn’t been in my room at all. I must have misplaced the items. Maybe I was too busy with my perfect life to keep track of my stuff.
“You always blame me for everything,” she’d cry if I pressed the issue. “Mom! Ava is accusing me again!”
And inevitably, our mother would intervene with:
“Ava, you need to be more careful with your things instead of blaming your sister.”
One evening in October, I returned from the library to find my desk drawer slightly open. A quick check confirmed another forty dollars missing from my camera jar. This time, I went directly to my parents who were watching TV in the living room.
“I’ve been keeping track,” I said firmly. “This isn’t misplacing things. Someone is taking my stuff, and it’s not hard to figure out who.”
My father sighed without looking away from the screen.
“Do you have any proof it’s Tara?”
“Who else would it be? You and Mom? The ghost of Christmas Past?”
“Watch your tone,” he warned.
My mother muted the television.
“Have you considered that maybe Jordan could have taken something? He’s been over quite a bit lately.”
The accusation stunned me.
“Jordan would never steal from me. He knows how important that camera fund is.”
“You’re being dramatic,” my father concluded. “Keep your drawer locked if you’re so worried.”
The conversation was over, but the pattern was clear. Tara was protected. I was not.
In November, strange posts began appearing on social media accounts under my name—accounts I hadn’t created. Posts mocking teachers, making crude comments about classmates, sharing embarrassing stories about friends that contained just enough truth to seem plausible. Friends started giving me odd looks in the hallway. Messages arrived asking why I’d said such hurtful things. Explaining that the accounts weren’t mine only sounded like desperate backpedaling.
Jordan remained loyal.
“Anyone who knows you knows that’s not your style,” he assured me. “Someone’s trying to mess with you.”
I changed all my passwords, reported the fake accounts, and tried to weather the social fallout. All while watching Tara’s circle of friends expand to include people who no longer spoke to me.
The night before my parents’ anniversary celebration in December, I reached into my desk drawer to count my camera savings one more time. $398—just twelve dollars short of my goal. I could almost feel the camera in my hands, imagining the moment I’d walk into the store and make the purchase myself. But when I returned from brushing my teeth, the jar was gone. Completely gone. Nearly $400 and two years of anticipation—vanished.
I tore my room apart, searching, panic rising in my chest. This wasn’t twenty dollars. This was everything. Sleep evaded me that night as I cycled between rage, disbelief, and dread about the confrontation to come. By morning, with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow feeling in my stomach, I made a decision to get through the anniversary celebration before addressing the theft. One day wouldn’t change anything, and I wouldn’t ruin my parents’ special day with another accusation they wouldn’t believe anyway. I didn’t realize then that the missing camera fund was just the opening move in a game I didn’t know I was playing—a game where all the rules favored anyone but me.
The morning of my parents’ twentieth anniversary celebration arrived with a house full of activity. My mother orchestrated the preparations with her usual precision—tablecloths perfectly pressed, centerpieces arranged with seasonal flowers, catering dishes timed to arrive exactly one hour before guests. My father handled the beverages, setting up a small bar in the corner of the dining room and chilling champagne for the toast. Despite the knot in my stomach about my missing savings, I threw myself into helping. This day mattered to my parents, and I wanted it to be special for them. I arranged chairs, set out photo albums chronicling their two decades together, and helped prepare the guest bathroom with fresh towels and potpourri.
Tara floated through the house in a new blue dress, her hair freshly styled, inserting herself into conversations with unusual enthusiasm.
“Mom, should I put these flowers on the mantle or the buffet table?”
“Dad, do you need help with those wine glasses?”
“Ava, you look tired. Did you not sleep well?”
Her performative helpfulness grated on my already frayed nerves, but I maintained a tight smile.
“Just excited for the party,” I replied, avoiding her gaze.
Relatives began arriving at four— aunts, uncles, my parents’ close friends, my father’s business partners. Among them was my father’s brother, Uncle Steven, and his wife, Aunt Catherine, who had just returned from a Mediterranean cruise. Uncle Steven wore an expensive watch that caught the light whenever he gestured—often—as he regaled everyone with stories of Greek islands and Italian villages. The celebration moved smoothly through dinner and into the dessert hour. Speeches were given, embarrassing stories shared, glasses raised to twenty more years. I photographed candid moments with the family camera, wishing for the equipment that would capture the warm lighting and emotional moments properly.
Around eight, Aunt Catherine approached me in the kitchen where I was arranging dessert plates.
“Ava, have you seen Steven’s watch? He took it off to help move the sofa for your mother, and now he can’t find it.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I said. “Where did he leave it?”
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