I’m Jessica, and I grew up in the shadow of a star.
That star was my older sister, Tiffany.
Our house was always filled with people—aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, people from church. They’d pour into our backyard like ants to a picnic, drawn by the promise of my mom’s famous barbecue and the chance to see Tiffany perform. Because Tiffany didn’t just sing—she performed. Like her whole body knew it was meant for the stage.
She’d belt out Broadway tunes barefoot in the grass, her curls bouncing, arms thrown wide. Everyone clapped. Every time.
“She’s going to be famous one day,” they said. “Just you wait.”
And I did wait. I waited through my childhood, through every birthday party where Tiffany was the main attraction. Through Christmases where she sang while I cleared plates. Through family reunions where they asked me to hold the camera while Tiffany soaked in compliments like sun rays.
I didn’t resent her, not really. It wasn’t her fault everyone loved her so much. But I did begin to wonder—was there ever going to be a space for me?
By the time we were in our twenties, Tiffany had become a minor local celebrity. She did community theatre, got a few spots in commercials, even had a billboard once for a bridal shop. She still lived at home, and so did I, though for very different reasons.
Tiffany was “strategically saving for her career.” I was “still figuring things out.”
That was the line.
The truth? I’d gone to college, graduated, got a degree in graphic design. But the job market didn’t care about my carefully curated portfolio or the internship I did for a wedding invitation startup. I bounced from temp gigs to retail to tutoring kids in math, anything to pay my share of the bills.
But no one saw that.
To them, I was Jessica, the girl still living in her childhood room, the one always “between things.” Tiffany was the dreamer with purpose. I was the drifter.
Still, I thought we were family. I thought they loved me, even if they didn’t always see me.
Until the video.
It happened on a Thursday night. I had just gotten home from a long shift helping coordinate a small local art fair. I was tired, legs aching, fingers stained with marker ink and poster paint. I microwaved leftover spaghetti and sat on the couch, scrolling through Instagram.
That’s when I saw it.
Aunt Regina had posted a video. The caption read:
“Throwback! Tiffany, Debbie, and John telling it like it is 😂 Love our family talks!! #truthhurts #familymatters #realtalk”
My stomach twisted as I clicked on it.
The video was taken in our backyard, probably a few weekends ago during one of our family BBQs. I hadn’t gone—I’d been working that day. I remembered coming home to leftover ribs and Tiffany’s new headshot pinned to the fridge with a magnet.
In the video, my mom sat in a lawn chair, sunglasses on, sipping lemonade. My dad stood by the grill, spatula in hand. Tiffany lounged on a blanket, laughing.
Regina, holding the camera, said, “So what’s the real tea, y’all?”
My mom grinned. “You want the real tea?”
“Let’s have it,” Regina said.
My dad chuckled. “Well, at least one of our daughters is going somewhere.”
Tiffany laughed. “Dad!”
“No lie detected,” Regina added, zooming in on Mom.
Mom shrugged. “Tiff has always been the motivated one. The other one…” she trailed off.
“Jessica,” Tiffany supplied, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah. Jess.” Mom said the name like it tasted bitter. “She’s… still living here. Doing her little doodles or whatever. No real job. No plan.”
“She’s freeloading,” my dad said casually, flipping a burger. “Let’s call it what it is.”
They all laughed.
Mom leaned forward, lowering her voice dramatically. “I love her, of course. But it’s like… how long are we supposed to carry her?”
“I give it six more months,” Tiffany said. “Then we stage a little intervention.”
More laughter.
The video ended with my aunt’s cackling and the camera turning briefly to catch Tiffany posing for the lens.
I sat frozen.
I must’ve watched it three times. The first in shock, the second in disbelief, the third in something close to rage. My parents—my own parents—had called me a freeloader. Publicly. On social media. Like a joke passed around the table.
The spaghetti went cold on the coffee table.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, the words echoing over and over again. “Let’s call it what it is.” “Six more months.” “Doing her little doodles.”
I wanted to confront them. To scream. To cry. To demand answers. But I didn’t. Not right away.
Instead, I woke up the next morning and went to work like usual. I met deadlines. Sent emails. Laughed politely in meetings.
Then I packed a bag.
I moved out that weekend.
It wasn’t dramatic. No shouting match. No tears. I just waited until they left for some cousin’s birthday party and started loading up the car with the help of my friend Lena. She offered her spare room—tiny, cramped, but mine.
Before I left, I taped a note to the fridge:
“Freeloaders don’t leave quietly. – Jess.”
That night, I turned off my phone.
When I turned it back on two days later, there were texts. Lots of them.
Mom: “Where are you?”
Dad: “What’s this note?”
Tiffany: “Drama queen, much?”
Regina: “Sorry if you got upset. We were just kidding. You know we love you!”
I didn’t reply. Not to any of them.
I unfollowed Regina. Blocked Tiffany. Muted the group chat.
The months that followed were hard. Rent wasn’t cheap, even for a shared room. I picked up more hours, freelanced on the side, designed logos for small businesses and wedding invites for friends. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine.
And then, unexpectedly, something clicked.
One of my freelance designs—a moody, hand-drawn branding package for a boutique candle company—went viral after they posted it on TikTok. Suddenly, I had a backlog of commissions. People wanted my “little doodles.”
By the end of the year, I was making more than I ever had before. I quit my side jobs. Built a client list. Created a brand. Even launched my own site—ByJessDesigns—and sold prints and stationery. It wasn’t a million-dollar business. But it was honest. It was growing. It was mine.
I didn’t tell my family. Not yet. They didn’t deserve to know.
But then Christmas came.
And I got an invitation.
“Come home for the holidays, sweetheart. We miss you. Love, Mom.”
I almost deleted it. But something stopped me.
I wanted to see them. Not to make peace. But to stand in the same room, look them in the eye, and be seen. Not as the freeloader. Not as the shadow. As me.
I went.
Tiffany opened the door, already dressed like she was about to sing the national anthem. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said with a smirk.
I stepped inside. “Still trying to be the main character, I see.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
I walked past her and into the living room. Mom and Dad were decorating the tree. They turned, startled.
“Jessica,” Mom breathed.
“Hi.”
We stood in silence.
Then Dad said, awkwardly, “We didn’t expect you.”
“I got your invitation.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Right.”
I waited. Waited for someone to apologize. For someone to say, “We were wrong.” For anything.
But they didn’t. Not really.
Instead, Mom said, “You look good.”
“Thanks. I’ve been working. Doing some design stuff.”
“Still doing that?” Tiffany asked, from behind.
“Actually,” I said, pulling a card from my coat, “I have my own business now. Full-time. Pays the rent and then some.”
Mom took the card like it was a foreign object. “Oh.”
“No freeloading,” I said, holding her gaze.
A flicker of shame passed across her face. But still—no apology.
That was okay. I hadn’t come for one.
I came to show them I’d already moved on.
That night, after dinner, Tiffany performed, as always. A ballad, overly emotional, eyes closed like she was on Broadway. Everyone clapped.
I stayed in the kitchen, refilling my glass of cider.
My cousin Maya slid up next to me. “That was cool, what you said earlier,” she whispered. “I saw that video. It was messed up.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised.
“I follow your page now. Your stuff’s amazing.”
I blinked. “You do?”
“Yeah. I bought one of your mushroom prints for my dorm. My roommate’s obsessed with it.”
I smiled. Really smiled.
Later that evening, as I slipped out into the cold air, I looked back once at the house where I’d grown up. The noise, the lights, the shadow of a star still shining too bright.
And then I turned and walked away.
Not bitter. Not angry.
Just free.
