During a family dinner, my parents announced that my brother and his wife, along with their two kids, would be moving in with me. I didn’t say a word, just waited for the day they showed up with their stuff – little did they know, I had sold the house a month earlier.

I’d always been “the runner-up” in my family, never the favorite, never “the golden child.” I was just Emily – the accountant. My brother, Michael, was always the star. As kids, Michael got a brand-new bike; I got his old one. For his birthdays, he’d get expensive gaming consoles, while I received books or clothes.

In high school, my parents went to every one of Michael’s football games, but only came to one of my debate competitions – the state finals, which I won. Even then, they said, “Michael would be so proud if he were here.”

The inheritance from my grandfather sealed the deal. Michael got the spacious four-bedroom house in a fancy neighborhood, while I was left with a small two-bedroom in the suburbs. I once overheard my mom begging Grandpa:
— “Dad, Michael’s going to have a family, he needs the bigger place. Emily will be fine in the smaller one.”

I never complained. There was no point. In our family, Michael always came first.

So I wasn’t surprised when, at one of our monthly dinners, Michael and his wife Lauren cleared their throats and announced:
— “We’ve decided to sell our house,” Michael said proudly.
— “We’re investing in an amazing opportunity,” Lauren added, eyes shining.

My parents clapped and cheered.

I asked carefully:
— “What kind of investment?”
Michael waved his hand dismissively.
— “It’s complicated. My friend Jason is launching a platform connecting investors with startups. It’s going to revolutionize venture capital.”
Lauren chimed in:
— “He’s projecting 300% returns in the first year!”

I frowned.
— “That sounds like a scam. You’ve got Ella, 5, and Noah, 3. Is it wise to sell your house? Why not use savings first?”

The room grew tense. Michael smirked.
— “Emily, you went to community college for accounting. I studied finance at Westmore. I know more about startups than you ever will.”

I bit my lip. He didn’t mention that he barely graduated, while I graduated with honors and was quickly climbing the corporate ladder. But I didn’t argue.
— “You’re right. It’s your decision.”

My parents looked at him like he was a hero.
— “Your grandfather would be so proud,” my mom said.

Three months later, Michael and Lauren were broke. They had sold their house, invested $500,000 with Jason, splurged on a red Porsche, rented a $4,000-a-month luxury apartment, and Michael quit his job at the bank. Within six months, they were bankrupt and moved back in with my parents.

Suddenly, my retired parents’ small home housed six people. My dad had to go back to work at a hardware store just to cover expenses. And me? My mom called, asking me to “help a little” by sending $600 a month. I agreed, but it stung knowing Michael still kept the Porsche.

Then one day, at a cousin’s birthday party, my Aunt Patty leaned in and whispered:
— “Your parents are planning to move Michael and his family into your house. They said just for a few months, but honestly, they’re hoping you’ll leave it to them permanently.”

I felt my stomach drop. They didn’t just want me to help – they wanted to take my house altogether.

That night, I made a plan. I applied for a transfer to my company’s Pittsburgh office, sold the little house I’d spent years fixing up, and moved quietly. I bought a new apartment in the city, with a higher-paying job and a fresh start.

At the next family dinner, I pretended to reluctantly agree to let Michael move in. They were thrilled, not realizing I’d already sold the house. On moving day, Michael arrived with a rental truck – only to find strangers moving in.

My mom called me, screaming:
— “What did you do, Emily?!”
— “I sold the house. I live in Pittsburgh now. I’ve taken a new position.”

Her voice turned icy.
— “You are no longer my daughter.”
I answered calmly:
— “I think that’s been true for a long time. And by the way, I’m done sending $600 every month. Goodbye.”

I blocked their numbers and started my new life.

Six months later, my cousin called. Jason had disappeared, Michael had nothing left, and he and Lauren were still living with my parents. My dad was still working at the hardware store. But this time, no one blamed me. In fact, they called me the smart one – the only one who got out.

Now, I sit on the balcony of my new apartment in Pittsburgh, sipping coffee. I don’t feel guilty. For the first time in my life, I chose myself – and I’ll never go back to being “second place” again.