My sister, Tara, hijacked my 30th birthday and expected me to pay, but I found my voice and made her face the consequences. Growing up, Tara was punished for nothing while I was scolded for small slip-ups, like leaving dishes out. I hoped adulthood would level the playing field, but my birthday showed otherwise. I planned a quiet intimate dinner at a bayside café, inviting close friends, cousins, and, reluctantly, my parents and Tara. I sent detailed invites, covering the date, time, and menu, thinking I’d avoided any drama. But Tara brought the drama.
I arrived in my black dress, ready to celebrate, but the café sparkled with blue streamers and a banner reading, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEGEND!”—for Tara. She shone in a blue gown, surrounded by her crowd. My cozy party was now 35 people, with crab and costly wine. My heart dropped. Tara glided over, beaming. “We’re co-celebrating, sis! My 29th needed a redo!” I said, “It’s my birthday.” She laughed, “It’s about the mood!” Mom, Karen, hissed, “Don’t be greedy, Lily.” Dad shrugged. I watched Tara steal my night, giving toasts and opening my presents.
The bill arrived—huge, thanks to Tara’s additions. “You got this, birthday girl,” she teased, pushing it my way. I smiled, plotting. “I’ll pay, one condition,” I said, calling the manager, Sam. “Can you play the reservation call?” Sam brought a recording of Tara’s voice, expanding the guest list, ordering extravagances, and using my name for “her” event. Guests gasped; Tara froze, muttering, “I wanted it special!” I said, “You faked my booking. Pay, or we involve the cops.” She begged our parents; Dad paid, grim-faced. I thanked everyone and left, brushing off Mom’s criticism. My friend, Zoe, cheered, “That was bold!” Tara texted, “You embarrassed me.” I replied, “Learn.” Standing tall was my greatest birthday gift.
