My Sister Framed Me, Cried To My Parents, And Got Me Thrown Out Barefoot…

The Golden Child and the Scapegoat

My sister framed me, cried to my parents, and got me thrown out barefoot at 15. Weeks later she bragged about it and mom overheard everything.

Kyle, an 18-year-old guy, was 15 when all of this occurred. If you asked my family to characterize me back then, they would most likely mention the problem.

My father was among those who believed that respect was a one-way path. You either give it to him without question or you receive the belt of his voice and, on sometimes, his actual belt.

My mother followed his lead as if it were gospel. Then there was Becca, my sister, who was two years younger and yet the perfect child.

She could set the kitchen on fire while making popcorn and my dad would call it a learning experience. I forgot to mow the grass once and I’m irresponsible and heading nowhere in life.

That is how it has always been. Everything she did was forgiven.

Every action I took demonstrated that I was doomed to make mistakes. If she passed an exam it was because she was diligent and intelligent.

If I passed a test it was due of luck. She was the golden child and I was the one that brought the family down.

The Night of the Frame-Up

I’d always thought it was unjust but I never imagined she’d take it to that level that night. It started normally.

I was in my room with my ancient laptop fiddling with some music downloads and half-assing homework. It was late, possibly past 11:00.

My door swung open so hard that it struck the wall and both my parents stormed in as if I had set off an alarm. My mother’s face was flushed and my father’s veins were visible on his forehead.

Behind them, Becca pretended to cry so hard that she should have received a medal.

“He stole it! I saw him take it from dad’s wallet!”

She wailed, pointing directly at me.

“What?”

I sat up straight, perplexed as heck.

Dad is already storming across the room looking around like he’s on an investigation show. Then he grabbed my pillow, lifted it, and there it was.

Crumpled bills, possibly worth $300 to $400, were pushed behind it. I swear my stomach sank through the floor.

“I told you!”

Becca exclaimed, crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks.

My head couldn’t even process. I had not touched his wallet.

I hadn’t even gone near it. But before I could say anything, Dad was in my face jabbing his finger at my chest.

“You embarrassed this family for the last damn time! You think we didn’t notice things missing before? You think we’re stupid?”

I jumped up abruptly, shaking my head.

“That isn’t mine! She planted it! She’s lying! Why would I take money when I’ve been saving every penny I could from babysitting and mowing lawns? Ask Mrs. Novak next door!”

“Enough!”

He barked so loudly that it rattled my glass.

“A liar and a thief! You’ve made this house a joke!”

I turned at my mother for support but she didn’t even look me in the eye. She repeated what dad said.

There were no questions, as if it were the law. Meanwhile, Becca stood behind them, head lowered like a saint.

But I noticed the sneer, that little flicker of joy on her lips, as Dad began tearing up my room, tossing my belongings into a trash bag as if I were some stray they were discarding.

“Dad, please! It isn’t true!”

I exclaimed, my voice breaking.

But it didn’t matter. He snatched my rucksack from the corner, dumped it onto the bed, and began filling it with odd clothes.

Mom began to say something but a frown from dad silenced her. Becca let out a big sniffle.

“I’m terrified to even share a house with him because he gets so angry. What if he hurts me?”

That cut worse than anything. I spun toward her, my heart hammering.

“What are you talking about? I’ve never laid a hand on you!”

But the harm had already been done. Dad clenched his jaw.

“That’s it! Out now!”

They thrust the bags into my arms and dragged me down the hallway with Becca trailing behind, whispering.

“I told you they’d believe me.”

Exiled and Homeless at Fifteen

When we reached the front door, Dad jerked it open. The night air struck me like ice.

I was barefoot and still wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Dad shoved me onto the porch so forcefully that I stumbled.

My sneakers were still at the door, so I grabbed them before he could close it completely.

“You don’t come back here until you’re ready to admit what you did and apologize to your sister,”

He said quietly and definitively.

“I didn’t do anything!”

I exclaimed, my throat raw.

“She’s lying to you! She set me up!”

“Don’t you dare talk about her like that,”

My dad said.

“She’s been nothing but good to this family. You’re jealous, Kyle. Jealous and bitter.”

The door slammed shut, shaking the glass panes. For a few moments, I stood there, garbage bag dropping from my arms, waiting for it to swing open again to discover they just kicked out their own child over some tears and planted cash.

It never did. I sat down on the porch steps shivering and looked out at the peaceful street.

I wasn’t only grounded, I wasn’t only in trouble; I was out. Exiled.

I’m 15 years old and standing outside my own house with nothing but a trash bag of clothes and a backpack. I knew my sister had won.

She had their trust, affection, and unwavering commitment, and I was disposable. I recall gripping the trash bag as if it were a lifeline.

My chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. Part of me wanted to rush back inside and pound on the door until they listened.

Another portion realized it wouldn’t matter. They had made their choice.

And as I eventually stepped off that porch and began heading into the night, one idea burned brighter than the rest. They’d choose to trust her lies than my truth.

That’s when I understood I wasn’t the only black sheep; I had already been cut out of the herd. The first night I went around the block till my legs hurt.

I wasn’t even sure where I was headed. It was late and freezing and I was clutching a garbage bag like a runaway.

I considered crashing at the park but the benches were soaked from sprinklers. Then it struck me: Lindsay lived a few blocks over.

She’d been my best friend since middle school, so I believed maybe her folks would let me spend the night. Her eyes widened as she noticed me standing there in sweatpants carrying a garbage bag.

She let me in quickly. She whispered inquiries, and I informed her that they had kicked me out.

She didn’t seem astonished, just sad. She gave me a blanket on the floor and some leftover pizza, and I slept more soundly than I had in weeks.

Her mother was not as forgiving. The next morning she approached me privately.

She wasn’t nasty, just straightforward with me.

“Kyle, you can stay for a few nights but I can’t afford another mouth. You’ll have to figure something out.”

I nodded, pretending everything was okay, but my stomach wrenched. Lindsay’s mother drove me to school early on the third night and told me I couldn’t return.

That was it. I placed my garbage bag inside my locker and pretended I had somewhere else to go.

From then on I began couch surfing. A classmate let me crash on their sofa for the night.

Another let me remain in their basement, but only for tonight. People did not want to cope with the drama in my family.