At Graduation, My Parents – Who Paid for My Sister’s Entire College But Refused to Pay for Mine – Turned Pale When…

My sister and I graduated from college together, but my parents only paid for my sister’s tuition. My parents came to our graduation, but their faces turned pale when my name was called. My name is Rachel Moore. I was born four minutes after my sister, Hannah, and apparently, those four minutes made all the difference in the eyes of my parents, Charles and Elizabeth Moore.

Hannah and I are twins, but to them, it seemed there was only one real daughter, and alas, it wasn’t me. From my earliest childhood, I noticed the difference in how they treated me. Hannah always got the newest, prettiest, and most desirable things. She got the dolls, and I got the ones the neighbors’ children gave me. She got the dresses, and I got the ones that were already worn.

When Hannah cried, my mother dropped everything and flew to comfort her, hug her, and persuade her. When I tripped and scraped my knee, all I heard was: “You’re a strong girl, Rachel, be patient.” I was given a paper napkin and sent off to play again. As a child, I began to understand that in order to be noticed, I had to do something extraordinary. After all, no one noticed my tears for no reason.

I remember one of the most vivid episodes from that time. I was about five years old. Hannah and I were playing in the yard. She wanted to climb up some tall metal structure on the playground, but she got scared and started crying. I was scared myself, but I climbed up and jumped off anyway to show her that it was okay.

I hoped that my parents would praise my courage, but Dad ran up to us first, hugged Hannah, and told her that she was a brave girl, although he didn’t even try to climb up. He glanced at me and just quietly muttered: “Be careful, Rachel, you know you can hurt yourself.” And that was it, no pride in me, no approval. Perhaps this became the model of our relationship for many years to come.

The more I tried to prove that I deserved attention, the more indifferent they became. But Hannah could smile, do some insignificant thing, and my parents would immediately shower me with praise. I carefully hid my jealousy. It is difficult for a child to understand why he gets less love. I cried at night hugging the shabby teddy bear that my grandmother gave me.

My grandmother was the only one who always looked at me with warmth. She lived in another city, so we rarely saw each other, but every time she visited, I was bathed in the warmth that alas, my mom and dad could not give me.

When we went to school, everything became even more noticeable. Hannah was always praised for her efforts. For example, she had a craft made of cardboard and paper, quite ordinary with many flaws, but my mother shouted: “This is just a masterpiece, Hannah! How did you do it so beautifully? Oh, you’re so clever.” At the same time, I had my first successes in writing.

I received certificates in drawing competitions, wrote short stories for which my teachers noted me, but at home this only caused a cold reaction. “Well, yes, well done, Rachel, but watch out, don’t get cocky.” I heard some kind of tension in these words, as if my mother did not even want to admit that I was capable of success without their support. I studied hard, avoiding complaints and showy whining because I realized it was useless.

One day when I was about ten, Hannah and I brought in our report cards. I had straight A’s, and she had a couple of good grades between the C’s and B’s. My parents, looking at my A’s, just nodded: “Well, you’re a smart girl, it’s clear.” And looking at Hannah’s report card, they exclaimed: “Wow, three B’s, great, Hannah! We’re proud of you.”

I remember how my heart sank. It seemed as if the award for my hard work had been given to someone else, and this happened over and over again. The older we got, the more obvious the gap in our family became. My parents believed that Hannah needed their attention. She was more sensitive, more tender, more vulnerable, and I, in their opinion, can stand up for myself.

“You’ll figure it out yourself, you’ll find a way out yourself,” and so on in the same spirit. At some point, I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t have much support from my parents. But resigning myself doesn’t mean giving up. On the contrary, it pushed me forward every time even more stubbornly, constantly proving not so much to them as to myself that I’m worth something.

When Hannah and I were finally approaching graduation, the question of choosing a college arose. We both decided to study accounting. It turned out to be an amazing coincidence. This interest in numbers, finances, and reporting was awakened in me because I loved order and precision. In Hannah, I never noticed any particular desire for such sciences, but she said: “Well, this is a popular profession, and then we’ll see.”

My parents took this very seriously. They paid for her education in full and at once so that Hannah doesn’t have to worry about anything during her studies. “Let her focus on her studies.” And to me, as soon as the conversation turned to money for education, they said: “You’re smart, Rachel, you can probably get a grant and earn some extra money if necessary. You won’t be lost.”

On the one hand, I was offended that they were spending fabulous sums on my sister, and I had to fight for every scholarship and grant with my own efforts. On the other hand, this was what gave me another push not to give up. I thought if they are sure that I am strong, then I will prove how strong I can be.

I began to draw up documents for grants, apply for all kinds of scholarships, and look for vacancies for students in order to cover at least part of the expenses myself. We both went to the same college, although we lived there in completely different ways. Hannah lived in a spacious room on campus. Her parents regularly sent her money for everything, from textbooks to clothes and entertainment. She hung out with classmates, went to parties, and led a cheerful and carefree life.

I found a modest room in a dorm, worked part-time in the library in the evenings, then sometimes worked there as a cleaner. I joined a small program where students could clean rooms for a fee. Sometimes I wash the floors in the hallways of the dorm, and I did all this at those hours when most of my classmates were resting.

In the breaks that I snatched for myself, I studied, read tons of literature on accounting, financial analysis, and taxation. Even though I was terribly tired, I realized this is my only way to achieve something. No one will hand me what I want on a silver platter.

My sister never noticed it. When we crossed paths in the cafeteria or on the playground in front of the building, she would say with a hint of pity: “You look tired, Rachel. Maybe you should manage your time better instead of running around everywhere.” And I would smile back, trying not to show any resentment or anger, because I understood this was my decision. I chose this path, and an inner voice would say: “Hang in there, Rachel, you have everything ahead of you.”

Several semesters passed. I gradually settled in, realized that in addition to my main studies, I needed to think about my career in advance. So I went to various internships. I got into a local audit firm where, albeit formally, I was on duty. I brought coffee, copied documents, and helped sort papers. In return, I received invaluable experience of immersion in the real sphere.