Sister Called Me ‘The Selfish One’ – I’m Her Anonymous $95M Investor

The Poison at the Table

The words hung in the air of Mom’s dining room like poison. Twenty-three people—aunts, uncles, cousins, my parents—all nodded in agreement.

My sister Sarah stood at the head of the table, glass of wine raised, her voice dripping with practiced concern. “Maya has always been like this,” she continued, gesturing toward me with her free hand. “Takes and takes, never gives back. I’ve built a successful tech company, helped Mom and Dad with their retirement fund, paid for Cousin Jennifer’s wedding, and Maya? She can’t even be bothered to contribute to Grandma’s care facility.”

I cut another piece of roast chicken, chewed slowly, and said nothing. Dad cleared his throat. “Sarah’s right. We’ve all stepped up for this family. Maya, you’re 32 years old; when are you going to start thinking about someone other than yourself?”

“She’s been like this since we were kids,” Sarah added, settling back into her chair with a satisfied smile. “Remember when I shared my birthday money with everyone and Maya kept hers hidden in that little box?”

And Linda laughed. “Some people never change.”

I took a sip of water and looked at my plate. The familiar weight of their judgment pressed down on me, but I’d grown used to it over the years. Let them talk; let them believe what they needed to believe.

What they didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that I’d been watching Sarah’s company very carefully for the past four years. I knew exactly how much of her success was built on the anonymous investment that had saved her from bankruptcy in 2019. I knew because I was that anonymous investor.

The story started seven years ago when I was 25 and Sarah was 28. I’d just sold my first software company, a data analytics firm I’d built from my apartment, to a larger tech corporation for $180 million. The sale was quiet, handled through multiple LLCs and legal structures that kept my name out of the press. I’d learned early that visibility attracted the wrong kind of attention, especially from family.

Sarah, meanwhile, had launched her third startup attempt. The first two had failed spectacularly, burning through Mom and Dad’s retirement savings and money borrowed from relatives. But she had a gift for presentation, for making people believe in her vision even when the numbers didn’t add up.

“Maya, you should be more like your sister,” Mom had said at dinner one night shortly after my sale went through. “Sarah’s out there taking risks, building something. You’re still doing that boring government contract work.”

I’d smiled and nodded. The government contract work was my cover story—simple and unimpressive, it kept questions to a minimum.

Sarah’s third company, Nex Tech Solutions, focused on AI-driven customer service platforms. The idea was solid, but her execution was chaotic. She hired friends instead of qualified professionals, and she spent money on premium office space and company retreats while her actual product lagged behind competitors.

By 2019, she was three months from total collapse. That’s when she started calling me. “Maya, I need a favor,” she’d said over coffee. “Just 20,000. A bridge loan until our series of funding comes through.”

I’d looked at her across the table, my older sister who’d spent our entire childhood getting everything while I got the leftovers. This was the sister who’d convinced our parents to pay her college tuition while I worked three jobs for mine, the sister who borrowed my car and returned it with a cracked windshield, then convinced Mom it was somehow my fault.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” I’d lied. Her face had hardened. “Right. Of course. The selfish one strikes again.”

She’d walked out without paying for her coffee. Two weeks later, I’d contacted my investment attorney. “I want to make an anonymous investment in Nex Tech Solutions. 95 million. Structure it so it’s completely untraceable to me.”

He’d raised an eyebrow. “That’s a significant investment in a failing company.” “I know what I’m doing.”

The truth was, I didn’t want to watch my sister fail. Despite everything, despite years of being the scapegoat, some part of me still remembered the Sarah who taught me to ride a bike, who’d stayed up with me when I had nightmares at age six.

This was before the favoritism, before the jealousy, before everything got broken. So, I saved her company anonymously. The investment came through a venture capital firm I controlled through a shell corporation.

Sarah never knew. She thought she’d finally impressed the big investors, that her pitch deck and vision had won them over. She told everyone it was her business acumen that had attracted major Silicon Valley players.

The family had celebrated for weeks. Sarah was the golden child again—the success story, the proof that hard work and determination paid off. And I went back to being the disappointment who worked a boring job and never contributed to anything.

The Cost of Silence

Over the next four years, I watched my investment carefully. I installed professional management through the VC firm’s board seats. I brought in actual engineers, real talent that Sarah took credit for recruiting.

The company stabilized, then grew. By 2023, Nex Tech Solutions was valued at $340 million. Sarah bought a house in the suburbs and a Tesla.

She started appearing at family dinners in designer clothes, talking about the grind and building something meaningful. Meanwhile, I lived in my modest apartment, drove my seven-year-old Honda, and listened to lectures about my lack of ambition.

“You could learn something from Sarah,” Dad would say every few months. “She’s really making something of herself.”

I’d nod, smile, and say nothing. The breaking point came three months ago. Grandma had suffered a stroke and needed to move into a specialized care facility.

The costs were substantial: $18,500 per month. Mom sent out a family email asking everyone to contribute proportionally based on income. I’d immediately set up an automatic payment for my share, $1,200 monthly.

I sent it directly to the facility under a corporate account, keeping my involvement quiet as always. Sarah had pledged $3,000 monthly and made sure everyone knew about it. She’d posted on social media about taking care of family and the importance of giving back.

Two weeks later, I’d received a call from the facility administrator. “Miss Chin, I wanted to confirm you’re covering the full cost of your grandmother’s care, correct? The payment of 18,500 came through your corporate account.” “Yes,” I’d said. “But please don’t mention this to my family. I’d appreciate discretion.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Though I should mention that we haven’t received any other family contributions despite the pledges.”

My jaw had tightened. “I see. Thank you for letting me know.”

I’d done some digging. Sarah had never made a single payment; neither had most of the family. They’d all pledged amounts they wanted credit for, but when it came time to actually contribute, they’d found excuses.

Sarah’s excuse had been particularly galling. “Things are tight with the company right now. I’ll catch up next month.”

Her company—my company, really—had just closed a $40 million revenue quarter. That brought us to last Sunday’s family dinner, the one where Sarah stood up and called me selfish in front of everyone. I’d sat there listening to her catalog my failures, how I never helped with family events, and how I’d skipped Cousin Jennifer’s wedding.

I’d sent a $10,000 gift anonymously, but no one knew that. She went on about how I’d never offered to help Sarah with her company. The irony nearly made me laugh.

“Maya lives in her own little world,” Sarah had concluded. “She has no idea what it means to sacrifice for people you love.”

The table had erupted in agreement. Mom had actually teared up, nodding along. Dad had launched into a speech about family values that would have been touching if it weren’t so hypocritical.

I’d finished my dinner, helped clear the plates, and drove home in silence. And on Monday morning, I’d sent the email that would change everything.

The email to my investment firm was brief. “Regarding Nex Tech Solutions: Initiate complete withdrawal of all funding. I want the 95 million investment liquidated and board positions vacated within 30 days. Provide formal notice to company leadership today.”

My attorney called within the hour. “Maya, are you certain about this? The company’s valuation is strong. This will trigger immediate crisis protocols in their operations.” “I’m certain.” “They’ll be insolvent within 60 days without this capital structure. The company will collapse.” “I understand.”

There was a pause. “May I ask what changed?”

I looked out my office window at the city below. “Nothing changed. That’s the problem.”