Dad demanded $150,000 for raising me and wanted me to fund my golden child sister who got everything. So, I told them my dying mom confessed that she’s not his biological daughter and proved it with DNA tests.

When I was growing up, it was obvious to everyone who the golden child was in my family. My sister Amelia could do no wrong in my dad’s eyes. If she got a C in school, it was the teacher’s fault. If I got an A, it was because I wasn’t doing enough extracurriculars. My dad would brag about Amelia’s dance recital like she was the next Prima Ballerina while dismissing my academic achievements as nerd stuff.

I can’t say it didn’t bother me, but after a while, you just learned to deal with it. Or at least I thought I had. Let me paint you a clearer picture of what growing up was like. Every morning before school, Dad would make Amelia these elaborate breakfasts. French toast, fresh fruit arrangements, the works. Meanwhile, I’d be lucky if there was any milk left for my cereal.

When report cards came out, my straight As would get a nod while Amelia’s C plus in English somehow warranted a celebratory dinner because she really tried her best. Even during Christmas, the presents under the tree told the same story. Amelia would get mountains of carefully wrapped gifts while I’d usually end up with practical stuff like socks or school supplies.

The favoritism got even more obvious after mom got sick. I was 16 and Amelia was 14 when mom was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer. Those last two years of high school were brutal. While I was juggling AP classes, a part-time job at the local library, and helping take care of mom, dad was constantly focused on making sure Amelia didn’t get too stressed by the situation.

He even hired a private tutor to help her maintain her C average because she’s sensitive and needs extra support. Meanwhile, I was staying up until 3:00 a.m. studying after spending hours helping mom with her medication and cleaning up around the house.

Mom passed away during my senior year, just two months before graduation. I remember dad barely acknowledged my valedictorian speech because Amelia was having a really hard time and needed his attention. She ended up skipping the ceremony entirely, claiming it was too emotional for her, and dad stayed home with her instead of watching me graduate. That one hurt more than I like to admit.

The college years were a whole other level of unfair. Despite having a college fund set up by mom before she passed, which mysteriously disappeared, Dad claimed it was used up by medical bills. I had to scramble for scholarships and student loans. Meanwhile, dad somehow found money to send Amelia to an expensive dance academy in New York for a summer program, which she quit after 3 weeks because the vibe wasn’t right. That program cost more than my entire freshman year tuition.

I worked my butt off in college, full course load, dean’s list every semester, plus two part-time jobs. One at the campus library during the day and another waiting tables at night. I lived off ramen and coffee, sharing a tiny apartment with three other girls to save money.

During this time, Amelia was living at home, rent-free, finding herself through various expensive hobbies that dad happily funded. There was the pottery phase, complete with a $2,000 wheel that’s now collecting dust in the garage, the photography period. Dad bought her a professional-grade camera. And let’s not forget the brief stint as a professional food critic, which mostly involved dad paying for expensive restaurants.

After graduating summa cum laude, I landed an entry-level position at a consulting firm. The starting salary wasn’t great, but I was determined to make it work. I lived in a sketchy studio apartment, took the bus everywhere, and brown-bagged my lunches. Every spare dollar went toward paying off my student loans or building my emergency fund.

Meanwhile, Amelia was on her fifth career change. This time, deciding she wanted to be a yoga instructor. Dad, of course, paid for her certification equipment, and even rented a small studio space for her, which she used for exactly 3 months before deciding she wasn’t feeling fulfilled.

The thing is, I didn’t even mind their dynamic that much anymore because I’d created my own life. I had good friends, a growing career, and my own space. I kept my distance from family stuff, showing up for major holidays with a generic gift card and leaving before the drama could start. It worked for everyone, or so I thought.

Over the past few years, I’ve really hit my stride professionally. Through a combination of hard work, strategic job moves, and some lucky breaks, I worked my way up to senior consultant. I managed to pay off my student loans early and even began building a decent investment portfolio. For the first time in my life, I felt financially secure.

I’m not flashy about my success. I drive a used Honda, live in a modest but nice apartment, and my biggest splurge is probably my weekly therapy sessions, which honestly have been worth every penny. But I guess word gets around, especially in the age of social media.

The confrontation that happened last Saturday had actually been brewing for a while. A week before, I’d gotten some weird texts from Amelia asking about investment advice and whether I could help her start a business. I brushed them off with vague responses because I knew where that road led. Then dad started calling more frequently, making odd comments about how successful children support their parents and sending me articles about family wealth management.

So when they showed up at my door that Saturday morning, I wasn’t completely surprised, just disappointed. Opening the door to find dad and Amelia standing there felt like a scene from a bad movie. Dad didn’t even wait for an invitation before pushing past me into my apartment.

The first thing he did was look around and make a comment about how fancy my place was. It’s really not just a regular two-bedroom apartment with IKEA furniture. Amelia flopped down on my couch like she owned the place, already scrolling through her phone.

Then came the bombshell. Dad pulled out an actual spreadsheet. Yeah, he really did that. Breaking down what he called my family obligations. He had calculated that I owed him roughly $150,000 for raising me. Apparently, he’d kept receipts for everything from my childhood medical bills to school supplies.

Plus, he wanted me to invest in Amelia’s newest business idea, some sort of crystal healing spa concept that would only need about $75,000 to get started.

The whole time he was talking, I could feel this weird calm settling over me. You know that moment in movies where everything goes quiet right before all hell breaks loose? It was exactly like that.

I let him finish his whole presentation. I watched him show me his calculations, listened to Amelia chime in about how this was my chance to finally be a good sister and her dad guilt trip me about how mom would have wanted me to take care of the family.

That’s when I lost it. Like really lost it.

I started with the college fund, asked him point blank what really happened to mom’s savings. He stuttered something about medical bills, but I reminded him that mom’s insurance had covered most of those. Then I brought up every dance class, every expensive hobby, every time he’d chosen Amelia over me.

I even pulled up my old student loan statements on my phone to show him exactly how much debt I’d had to take on while he was bankrolling Amelia’s finding herself phases.

But the real kicker, I had something I’ve been holding on to for years. Something mom told me during one of our last conversations when the morphine had made her more honest than she’d ever been. She’d confessed that Amelia wasn’t actually Dad’s biological daughter.

Apparently, while dad had been away on a long business trip about 15 years into their marriage, mom had a brief affair with someone from her office. Nine months later, Amelia arrived.

The moment I said it, the room went dead silent. Dad’s face turned this weird shade of purple I’d never seen before. Amelia just sat there, mouth open, phone forgotten in her lap. Then she started crying, not her usual dramatic sobs, but quiet shocked tears.

Dad started yelling, calling me a liar, saying I was making things up to hurt them. But I wasn’t done. I pulled out my phone and showed them the email I’d saved from last year. My 23 and Me results that I’d gotten done for health reasons, showing Amelia and I were only half siblings.

I’d never planned to reveal this. It was mom’s secret to take to her grave. And I’d respected that for years. But something about their entitled attitude, the spreadsheet, the demands, it just broke something in me.

I told them both to leave. Dad was still shouting, but Amelia just got really quiet and started pulling him toward the door. Before they left, she turned back and asked if I was sure about the DNA results. I just nodded.

Ever since then, the situation has been intense. My phone’s been blowing up with texts and calls from both of them and random family members who’ve heard various versions of what happened. Dad’s been telling everyone I’m lying to get out of family obligations, while Amelia has gone completely silent on social media, a first for her.

I’ve blocked most of their numbers and social media accounts. I’m sitting here in my apartment, alternating between feeling guilty about spilling mom’s secret and feeling relieved that everything’s finally out in the open.

Part of me wonders if I should have just written them a check to make them go away, but I know that wouldn’t have solved anything in the long run.

Did I go too far? Should I have just kicked them out without saying anything? I’ve been carrying this secret for so long, and maybe it wasn’t my place to tell it. But watching them waltz into my home demanding money like they were entitled to it after years of favoritism and emotional neglect, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Am I the one who messed up here?