When Lori’s older sister arrived at the twins’ birthday party with a gleaming pink-and-gold gift nearly as tall as the kids, everyone figured it was just over-the-top kindness. But moments later, her younger sister crashed through the door in total panic, gasping and wide-eyed. What the heck was inside that box?
I’ve always felt that sisters hold the first draft of who we are. They remember the raw edges, the soft spots, and the parts we keep trying to edit but never really erase.
In my world, my older sister Lori and my younger sister Cindy are polar opposites. And for most of my 33 years, I’ve been stuck in the middle, playing worn-out referee.
I love my sisters. Truly. But if you saw us side by side, you’d swear we were raised in separate houses.
Lori, the eldest at 36, commands any space she enters. She’s the type who organizes her spices alphabetically and presses creases into her kids’ play clothes. She shares “spontaneous family snaps” online that somehow catch golden-hour light every time. Nothing about Lori ever looks out of place, or at least, she makes sure no one spots the chaos.
She has two children, and while I adore my nephew and niece, Lori polishes their every milestone like shiny awards.
Cindy, at 29, is pure heart and instinct. She’s the one who senses when you need a squeeze or a fresh-baked treat. She listens more than she speaks, and she lets go of grudges fast. She’s the rock you want in a storm.
And me? Smack in the center. The one who smooths things over.
But here’s what I’ve only just let myself admit: things with Lori have never been smooth.
Growing up, she had to be the top, the sharpest, the one with flawless penmanship and straight A’s. I figured out quick that trying to keep up wasn’t worth the fight.
We stayed civil until I got pregnant with twins.
The change hit fast. She played the excited role, grinning and cooing on cue, but the digs slipped out almost right away.
“Wow, twice the madness,” she quipped once, though her laugh felt forced.
Another time: “Twins are cute, but it’s more gimmick than real parenting. Basically herding cats.”
I forced a chuckle, even as it burned.
Once Curt and Rod were born, the pretend niceness vanished. Suddenly everything about my boys grated on her.
If they fussed at the table, she’d exhale like their cries were a personal attack. If they waddled around in clashing outfits, she’d eye them like I’d broken some style law.
But the lowest blow came when I caught her in the kitchen at my parents’ place, murmuring to Mom, “Some folks just aren’t cut out for more than one kid at once.”
I stood frozen in the hallway, my chest knotting in a way I hadn’t seen coming. At first, no rage. Just deep ache.
That was when I finally faced what I’d dodged for months.
Lori wasn’t envious of me. She was envious of my sons.
The more I turned it over, the clearer it got. Lori measures herself by how perfect her life appears. She needs eyes on her house, her husband, her children.
When my twins arrived, the whole family swooped in with adoration. Grandparents, cousins, even neighbors couldn’t get enough. For someone like Lori, who thrives on center stage, that shift must have felt like the lights swinging away.
She never got used to it. She never tried.
After that, I created distance. No blowups, no accusations. Just space. Years passed, and I kept her at arm’s length.
So when Mom pleaded to include Lori at the twins’ fourth birthday bash, I paused. But saying no to a begging mother feels impossible, doesn’t it?
I gave in and sent the invite.
Party day, Lori showed up punctual with a towering pink-and-gold package that screamed luxury window display. It dwarfed my boys. The paper was pristine, like a pro had wrapped it.
She extended it with a stiff grin.
“Happy birthday, boys,” she said, voice sugary yet somehow sharp.
“Thanks,” I managed, years of practice hiding how her edge cut.
The celebration rolled smooth. After cake, we circled in the living room for presents. I stood to guide the boys through the pile, that massive shimmering box glowing in the corner.
Then—BAM—at the front door.
Not a gentle tap. Frantic, pounding knocks that hit your gut first.
My pulse spiked. I rushed over, swiped icing from my fingers, and swung the door open.
There stood Cindy.
Hair a wild mess, like she’d raced with windows down on the interstate. Face red, breath ragged.
“Cindy?” I blurted. “Where’ve you been? You okay—”
“Tell me you haven’t opened Lori’s gift,” she interrupted.
“No, not yet.”
“Good,” she gasped, voice quivering. “Please. Stop them.”
She shoved inside, eyes darting like danger hid in the ribbons. Spotting the box, she whirled to me and hissed, “Do NOT let the boys open that.”
My gut sank.
“But why?” I whispered.
She shook her head. “I overheard talk. Claire said Lori set up something nasty. I—I had to reach you. Don’t touch it.”
I gawked. Claire was our old friend from way back.
“Cindy, your phone? You were due an hour ago.”
She raked fingers through tangled strands, fighting for air.
That’s when the whole mess started cracking open.
“Phone died en route,” Cindy panted. “Flat dead. Then—” a shaky breath, “—tire blew. On the freeway.”
My eyes bulged. “You should’ve called for help.”
“I did!” Hands flew up, still trembling. “But with no phone, nothing. Walked the shoulder till I hit one of those yellow emergency boxes. Didn’t know they still functioned.”
“They do,” Toby said softly behind me. “But you could’ve been in danger.”
Cindy brushed it off. “Wasn’t thinking safety. Just had to get here.”
A chill crawled my spine. If my steady, sensible little sister braved a highway edge, dialed roadside rescue, then bolted in like she’d escaped disaster, whatever she caught had to be bad.
“Okay,” I breathed, “from the top.”
She tugged me aside, voice low despite the muted party buzz. “Stopped at Claire’s picking up craft stuff for Curt and Rod. She invited me earlier. Walked in—she was on speaker.” Cindy gulped. “Didn’t spot me. Said Lori bragged about a gift for the boys that would ‘finally prove who the real favorite is.'”
My stare widened.
“She sounded thrilled,” Cindy went on. “Proud. Claire pushed back—’Lori, you can’t. They’re four.’ Lori snapped, ‘Let Jody handle the mess for once.'”
“What does that mean?” I murmured, though I knew.
Lori craved control. Craved eyes on her. Any shift in focus felt like theft.
“Where’s the gift?” Cindy demanded.
I nodded toward the huge pink-and-gold tower.
Her expression darkened. “Jody… whatever’s inside, it’s trouble.”
Suddenly that box looked menacing.
I inhaled deep, squared up, and strode back to the living room. Reached the boys just as Lori knelt beside them.
“Perfect!” she chirped. “Boys, let’s open this special one next. Saved the best.”
I slid between her and the twins. “Wait. Mom checks first.”
Silence crashed. Even the kids felt it.
Curt blinked up. “Why, Mommy?”
“Just making sure it’s safe,” I said soft. “You trust me?”
Both nodded quick, tiny hands linked.
I hoisted the box—surprisingly light—and hauled it to the kitchen. Toby trailed. Cindy too. Parents followed.
Lori stomped in last, dramatic as ever.
“What is this nonsense?” she barked. “It’s a present! For your kids!”
I placed it on the counter, ignored her bite. Fingers shook a bit peeling tape. Cracked it open enough to peek.
And saw.
A Labubu plush. The exact one my boys obsessed over.
But just one.
My insides knotted. I pulled it out—and spotted the card taped inside the lid.
“For the best-behaved and prettiest boy.”
Yep. Lori wanted my sons to battle.
The realization hit like steel. I spun to Lori, hands shaking with rage. She met my eyes, almost smirking.
“You bought one toy,” I said, each word deliberate, “so my boys would scrap over who ‘earns’ it?”
Lori blinked, fake shock honed from years of practice.
“Why the theatrics?” she scoffed. “One’s clearly better mannered. Everyone sees it. And it’s pricey—I can’t just buy tw—”
“Stop,” Dad barked.
His boom spun every head.
Dad’s patient, soft-spoken, thoughtful. Never loud. The volume shocked us all.
Mom clutched her chest. “Lori… how could you be so mean?”
Lori’s face contorted. “Mean? I arrive, I bring a gorgeous gift—”
“For one child!” Cindy fired. “You wanted four-year-old brothers to fight like some twisted contest!”
Lori rolled her eyes. “You’re all insane. I try something nice, and I’m the monster? Can’t gift without assault.”
“That’s no gift,” I said low. “That’s a bomb.”
Her jaw clenched. No denial.
She snatched her bag, huffed loud, and stormed out.
“Come on,” she snapped at her kids, who trailed embarrassed. Then—
SLAM.
The door rattled.
When the echo died, quiet felt heavy.
I set the plush down and hugged Cindy tight. She sagged like she’d held air since Claire’s call.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For real.”
“Always,” she murmured. “You and the boys first.”
Toby stepped close, hand in mine.
“We’ll fix it,” he said quiet.
I nodded, plan already forming.
“Need another plush,” I said. “Exact match. Tonight.”
Cindy’s eyes lit. “I’m in.”
We sent the boys back with cupcakes and markers, spinning the huge box as a “big reveal tomorrow.” They bought it, lost in sugar and sparkles.
That night, after cleanup and silence, I rewrapped the box. Stashed Lori’s single toy under basement steps.
At first light, Toby kissed my brow. “On it.”
He drove clear across town to the lone store with stock. Returned hours later, second plush held high like victory.
“Done,” he grinned.
Evening, we summoned the boys. Eyes huge at the reappeared giant box.
“Ready?” I asked.
They nodded wild, pigtails—no, curls bouncing.
They tore paper. Lifted lid—two identical plushes side by side. Pure shrieks of joy choked me up.
When Lori’s older sister arrived at the twins’ birthday party with a gleaming pink-and-gold gift nearly as tall as the kids, everyone figured it was just over-the-top kindness. But moments later, her younger sister crashed through the door in total panic, gasping and wide-eyed. What the heck was inside that box?
I’ve always felt that sisters hold the first draft of who we are. They remember the raw edges, the soft spots, and the parts we keep trying to edit but never really erase.
In my world, my older sister Lori and my younger sister Cindy are polar opposites. And for most of my 33 years, I’ve been stuck in the middle, playing worn-out referee.
I love my sisters. Truly. But if you saw us side by side, you’d swear we were raised in separate houses.
Lori, the eldest at 36, commands any space she enters. She’s the type who organizes her spices alphabetically and presses creases into her kids’ play clothes. She shares “spontaneous family snaps” online that somehow catch golden-hour light every time. Nothing about Lori ever looks out of place, or at least, she makes sure no one spots the chaos.
She has two children, and while I adore my nephew and niece, Lori polishes their every milestone like shiny awards.
Cindy, at 29, is pure heart and instinct. She’s the one who senses when you need a squeeze or a fresh-baked treat. She listens more than she speaks, and she lets go of grudges fast. She’s the rock you want in a storm.
And me? Smack in the center. The one who smooths things over.
But here’s what I’ve only just let myself admit: things with Lori have never been smooth.
Growing up, she had to be the top, the sharpest, the one with flawless penmanship and straight A’s. I figured out quick that trying to keep up wasn’t worth the fight.
We stayed civil until I got pregnant with twins.
The change hit fast. She played the excited role, grinning and cooing on cue, but the digs slipped out almost right away.
“Wow, twice the madness,” she quipped once, though her laugh felt forced.
Another time: “Twins are cute, but it’s more gimmick than real parenting. Basically herding cats.”
I forced a chuckle, even as it burned.
Once Curt and Rod were born, the pretend niceness vanished. Suddenly everything about my boys grated on her.
If they fussed at the table, she’d exhale like their cries were a personal attack. If they waddled around in clashing outfits, she’d eye them like I’d broken some style law.
But the lowest blow came when I caught her in the kitchen at my parents’ place, murmuring to Mom, “Some folks just aren’t cut out for more than one kid at once.”
I stood frozen in the hallway, my chest knotting in a way I hadn’t seen coming. At first, no rage. Just deep ache.
That was when I finally faced what I’d dodged for months.
Lori wasn’t envious of me. She was envious of my sons.
The more I turned it over, the clearer it got. Lori measures herself by how perfect her life appears. She needs eyes on her house, her husband, her children.
When my twins arrived, the whole family swooped in with adoration. Grandparents, cousins, even neighbors couldn’t get enough. For someone like Lori, who thrives on center stage, that shift must have felt like the lights swinging away.
She never got used to it. She never tried.
After that, I created distance. No blowups, no accusations. Just space. Years passed, and I kept her at arm’s length.
So when Mom pleaded to include Lori at the twins’ fourth birthday bash, I paused. But saying no to a begging mother feels impossible, doesn’t it?
I gave in and sent the invite.
Party day, Lori showed up punctual with a towering pink-and-gold package that screamed luxury window display. It dwarfed my boys. The paper was pristine, like a pro had wrapped it.
She extended it with a stiff grin.
“Happy birthday, boys,” she said, voice sugary yet somehow sharp.
“Thanks,” I managed, years of practice hiding how her edge cut.
The celebration rolled smooth. After cake, we circled in the living room for presents. I stood to guide the boys through the pile, that massive shimmering box glowing in the corner.
Then—BAM—at the front door.
Not a gentle tap. Frantic, pounding knocks that hit your gut first.
My pulse spiked. I rushed over, swiped icing from my fingers, and swung the door open.
There stood Cindy.
Hair a wild mess, like she’d raced with windows down on the interstate. Face red, breath ragged.
“Cindy?” I blurted. “Where’ve you been? You okay—”
“Tell me you haven’t opened Lori’s gift,” she interrupted.
“No, not yet.”
“Good,” she gasped, voice quivering. “Please. Stop them.”
She shoved inside, eyes darting like danger hid in the ribbons. Spotting the box, she whirled to me and hissed, “Do NOT let the boys open that.”
My gut sank.
“But why?” I whispered.
She shook her head. “I overheard talk. Claire said Lori set up something nasty. I—I had to reach you. Don’t touch it.”
I gawked. Claire was our old friend from way back.
“Cindy, your phone? You were due an hour ago.”
She raked fingers through tangled strands, fighting for air.
That’s when the whole mess started cracking open.
“Phone died en route,” Cindy panted. “Flat dead. Then—” a shaky breath, “—tire blew. On the freeway.”
My eyes bulged. “You should’ve called for help.”
“I did!” Hands flew up, still trembling. “But with no phone, nothing. Walked the shoulder till I hit one of those yellow emergency boxes. Didn’t know they still functioned.”
“They do,” Toby said softly behind me. “But you could’ve been in danger.”
Cindy brushed it off. “Wasn’t thinking safety. Just had to get here.”
A chill crawled my spine. If my steady, sensible little sister braved a highway edge, dialed roadside rescue, then bolted in like she’d escaped disaster, whatever she caught had to be bad.
“Okay,” I breathed, “from the top.”
She tugged me aside, voice low despite the muted party buzz. “Stopped at Claire’s picking up craft stuff for Curt and Rod. She invited me earlier. Walked in—she was on speaker.” Cindy gulped. “Didn’t spot me. Said Lori bragged about a gift for the boys that would ‘finally prove who the real favorite is.'”
My stare widened.
“She sounded thrilled,” Cindy went on. “Proud. Claire pushed back—’Lori, you can’t. They’re four.’ Lori snapped, ‘Let Jody handle the mess for once.'”
“What does that mean?” I murmured, though I knew.
Lori craved control. Craved eyes on her. Any shift in focus felt like theft.
“Where’s the gift?” Cindy demanded.
I nodded toward the huge pink-and-gold tower.
Her expression darkened. “Jody… whatever’s inside, it’s trouble.”
Suddenly that box looked menacing.
I inhaled deep, squared up, and strode back to the living room. Reached the boys just as Lori knelt beside them.
“Perfect!” she chirped. “Boys, let’s open this special one next. Saved the best.”
I slid between her and the twins. “Wait. Mom checks first.”
Silence crashed. Even the kids felt it.
Curt blinked up. “Why, Mommy?”
“Just making sure it’s safe,” I said soft. “You trust me?”
Both nodded quick, tiny hands linked.
I hoisted the box—surprisingly light—and hauled it to the kitchen. Toby trailed. Cindy too. Parents followed.
Lori stomped in last, dramatic as ever.
“What is this nonsense?” she barked. “It’s a present! For your kids!”
I placed it on the counter, ignored her bite. Fingers shook a bit peeling tape. Cracked it open enough to peek.
And saw.
A Labubu plush. The exact one my boys obsessed over.
But just one.
My insides knotted. I pulled it out—and spotted the card taped inside the lid.
“For the best-behaved and prettiest boy.”
Yep. Lori wanted my sons to battle.
The realization hit like steel. I spun to Lori, hands shaking with rage. She met my eyes, almost smirking.
“You bought one toy,” I said, each word deliberate, “so my boys would scrap over who ‘earns’ it?”
Lori blinked, fake shock honed from years of practice.
“Why the theatrics?” she scoffed. “One’s clearly better mannered. Everyone sees it. And it’s pricey—I can’t just buy tw—”
“Stop,” Dad barked.
His boom spun every head.
Dad’s patient, soft-spoken, thoughtful. Never loud. The volume shocked us all.
Mom clutched her chest. “Lori… how could you be so mean?”
Lori’s face contorted. “Mean? I arrive, I bring a gorgeous gift—”
“For one child!” Cindy fired. “You wanted four-year-old brothers to fight like some twisted contest!”
Lori rolled her eyes. “You’re all insane. I try something nice, and I’m the monster? Can’t gift without assault.”
“That’s no gift,” I said low. “That’s a bomb.”
Her jaw clenched. No denial.
She snatched her bag, huffed loud, and stormed out.
“Come on,” she snapped at her kids, who trailed embarrassed. Then—
SLAM.
The door rattled.
When the echo died, quiet felt heavy.
I set the plush down and hugged Cindy tight. She sagged like she’d held air since Claire’s call.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For real.”
“Always,” she murmured. “You and the boys first.”
Toby stepped close, hand in mine.
“We’ll fix it,” he said quiet.
I nodded, plan already forming.
“Need another plush,” I said. “Exact match. Tonight.”
Cindy’s eyes lit. “I’m in.”
We sent the boys back with cupcakes and markers, spinning the huge box as a “big reveal tomorrow.” They bought it, lost in sugar and sparkles.
That night, after cleanup and silence, I rewrapped the box. Stashed Lori’s single toy under basement steps.
At first light, Toby kissed my brow. “On it.”
He drove clear across town to the lone store with stock. Returned hours later, second plush held high like victory.
“Done,” he grinned.
Evening, we summoned the boys. Eyes huge at the reappeared giant box.
“Ready?” I asked.
They nodded wild, pigtails—no, curls bouncing.
They tore paper. Lifted lid—two identical plushes side by side. Pure shrieks of joy choked me up.
“WE BOTH HAVE ONE!” Rod yelled.
“Mommy, see! See!” Curt bounced.
Toby and I shared grins, watching bliss explode.
Then the curveball.
“Can we call Aunt Lori?” Curt asked. “Wanna say thanks!”
Rod bobbed. “We love her tons!”
Before I could deflect, they snatched my phone, dialed, speaker on.
Rings. Then Lori. “Hello?”
“WE LOVE THEM!” Curt screamed.
“You’re the best aunt!” Rod added.
“Thank you thank you THANK YOU!”
Toby paled.
Dead air on her end. Like defeat sank in—plan busted.
Finally, strained: “Glad you like them. Gotta run.”
Click.
Later, boys asleep clutching new toys, I stood in the hall and vowed silent: Next push to include Lori? I’ll weigh it. Hard. Again and again.
Families clash. Families feud.
But pitting innocent four-year-olds against each other? That line stays uncrossed. Forever.
“WE BOTH HAVE ONE!” Rod yelled.
“Mommy, see! See!” Curt bounced.
Toby and I shared grins, watching bliss explode.
Then the curveball.
“Can we call Aunt Lori?” Curt asked. “Wanna say thanks!”
Rod bobbed. “We love her tons!”
Before I could deflect, they snatched my phone, dialed, speaker on.
Rings. Then Lori. “Hello?”
“WE LOVE THEM!” Curt screamed.
“You’re the best aunt!” Rod added.
“Thank you thank you THANK YOU!”
Toby paled.
Dead air on her end. Like defeat sank in—plan busted.
Finally, strained: “Glad you like them. Gotta run.”
Click.
Later, boys asleep clutching new toys, I stood in the hall and vowed silent: Next push to include Lori? I’ll weigh it. Hard. Again and again.
Families clash. Families feud.
But pitting innocent four-year-olds against each other? That line stays uncrossed. Forever.