My name is Cashis. I’m 29 years old, and for 3 years I’ve been anonymously sending my family $3,500 monthly from my finance job in New York. Due to a banking error, my sister Melody gets all the credit.
At my father’s 60th birthday dinner, my mother said, “Learn from your sister who sends us money every month, you ungrateful son.”
When I tried saying, “But that’s actually me,” my father exploded. “Don’t try to steal your sister’s accomplishments. If it’s really you, then try stopping the payments.”
So, I did.
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I grew up in a modest two-story home in suburban Columbus, Ohio, with parents who never tried to hide their preference for my sister. Richard and Diana Hayes—my father and mother—had very different personalities, but shared one common trait. They both thought the sun rose and set with Melody.
From my earliest memories, the disparity in how we were treated was painfully obvious. Take our birthdays, for example. When Melody turned 10, my parents transformed our backyard into a carnival, complete with a hired clown, pony rides, and personalized cupcakes for 30 kids.
When I turned 10 just two years later, I got a store-bought cake and was allowed to invite three friends for pizza and a movie. My mother claimed it was because boys don’t care about parties as much as girls do, but even then, I knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The same pattern continued with our academic achievements.
When Melody brought home a B+ on her report card, my parents would take her out for ice cream to celebrate her hard work. When I brought home straight A’s, my father would glance at it and say, “That’s what we expect from you,” before returning to his newspaper. My mother might say, “Good job, Cashis,” but there was never any celebration, never any recognition that I had actually accomplished something difficult.
Sports were no different. I was a championship swimmer throughout high school, breaking two regional records my senior year. My trophies and medals were kept in a box in the basement, while Melody’s participation trophies for one season of junior varsity volleyball occupied the front-and-center position in our family’s trophy cabinet.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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