I’m Betty—divorced, childless, and constantly treated as the family afterthought.
“Betty, why haven’t you remarried?” my mother asked at last Thanksgiving. “You’re not getting any younger.”
My father nodded silently beside her, as always.
Across the table, my brother Peter smiled proudly. His wife, Sara, sat beside him, and their teenage son, Nick, barely looked up from his phone.
“I’m happy on my own, Mom,” I said. “It’s been five years since the divorce.”
She sighed. “Such a pity. Peter and Sara just hit 20 years together.”
That comparison has always followed me. Peter—older by four years—has always been the golden child. Star athlete, business owner, perfect family man.
I, on the other hand, teach eighth-grade English, live in a modest house, and spend weekends reading or walking with my dog, Charlie.
“Nick got into State,” Peter added. “Full scholarship.”
My parents lit up. I congratulated Nick, who mumbled “thanks” before asking to be excused.
“Oh, of course,” Mom said sweetly. “You must be exhausted from all that studying.”
Peter and I both knew better, but in our family, appearances matter more than truth.
After my divorce, I expected compassion.
Instead, my mother remarked, “Well, you were always more focused on work.” As if that justified Tom cheating.
Meanwhile, Peter had just been promoted, and that dominated the conversation.
Still, I’ve built a life I love. My home has a blooming garden. My students leave me thank-you notes. I have real friends.
Last month, I splurged on a new blue SUV.
When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, my dad barely glanced at it. “Bit excessive for one person,” he muttered.
Peter, to his credit, whistled. “Nice. How much did that cost?”
Before I could respond, Nick wandered over. “Can I drive it sometime?”
“Only if you help with some yard work,” I joked.
He rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”
That should’ve been my warning.
For my 40th birthday, I threw a party—nothing huge, just food, drinks, and friends who actually wanted to celebrate me.
I even invited my family, still hoping to feel seen.
By 6 p.m., my friends arrived with laughter and wine. Then came my family.
Peter handed me a gift bag that looked reused. Nick brushed past silently. Mom sniffed, “Too many candles. It’s a bit much.”
I stayed polite, introduced them around, and kept the energy upbeat.
Later, noticing some guests standing, I slipped away to the attic for extra chairs. That’s when I heard screeching tires.
Through the attic window, I saw my SUV smashed into a stone mailbox across the street. Nick climbed out of the driver’s seat, dusted himself off, and walked back toward the house.
I ran downstairs. The keys were still in the tray by the door.
Inside, Nick was calmly eating cake.
“Nick!” I said. “You took my car?”
He stared at me blankly. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Peter appeared, putting a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Calm down. You think he took your car?”
“I saw him!” I insisted.
“You’ve had wine,” Mom said. “Maybe you’re confused.”
That was it.
“Party’s over. Everyone out.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mom sighed.
“Out,” I repeated firmly.
They left, grumbling. I stood in the doorway, staring at my damaged car. And for the first time in years, I cried—furious and heartbroken.
The next morning, Peter, Sara, and my parents showed up.
“There’s been a development,” Peter said. “A neighbor has security footage. Your car crashed through his fence. He’s calling the police.”
Then came the ask.
“We need you to say you were driving,” Sara said.
“What?” I asked.
“Nick doesn’t have a license,” Peter said. “This could ruin his future.”
“He stole my car!” I snapped. “He’s 18. He knew better.”
“Don’t be difficult,” Dad said.
Peter added, “We’re asking for your forgiveness. For the family.”
I nodded. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
When the police came, I stood tall. “Nick took the car without permission. I wasn’t driving.”
Once they left, the shouting began.
“You lied to us!” Peter shouted.
“No,” I said. “You lied to me. And I’m done.”
“You just ruined his life,” Mom said.
“No. You did. By never holding him accountable.”
They stormed out. I closed the door behind them, calm, resolute.
That moment wasn’t just about a wrecked car. It was the day I finally chose myself. And I’ve never felt more visible.
