*”What sort of country frock is that?”* my sister sneered in front of everyone. My “gift” in return sent her fleeing…
Picture the scene. My sister, Lily—always fashionably thin as a rake, primped and polished to perfection. And me? Just an ordinary woman. A little fuller here, a wrinkle there—life leaves its marks, doesn’t it?
Every meeting with her became a quiet torment. She didn’t mean harm, I suppose—just “helpful advice.” She’d sidle up, give me that X-ray stare, and off she’d go:
*”Sophie, darling, that dress doesn’t flatter you at all—rather grandmotherly, don’t you think?”*
*”Sophie, you must change that hairstyle—it adds a good decade to your face.”*
*”Oh, ladies, that lipstick shade! Honestly, it’s been out of fashion since Queen Victoria’s day!”*
All delivered with a sweet, pitying smile. As if she were doing me a favour! Each “compliment” left me miserable for a week, avoiding mirrors like the plague.
It stung. I was no cover girl to begin with, and there she was, my own sister, poking at every sore spot.
At first, I laughed it off, changed the subject. But the final straw came at Mum’s birthday party.
I’d prepared for weeks—new dress, fresh hairdo, flawless makeup. Felt like royalty, truly.
There we all were in the restaurant, guests milling about, laughter ringing. Then Lily sashayed over, eyed me head to toe, and announced loud enough for the whole room:
*”Sophie, what on earth is that dress? You look like Farmer Giles’ wife! You should’ve asked me—I’d have found you something decent!”*
My heart sank. She’d humiliated me in front of everyone. So much for a celebratory mood!
That was it. Enough. I wouldn’t make a scene—oh no. I took a deep breath, flashed my brightest smile, and cut her off mid-sentence.
*”Lily, darling,”* I beamed, *”thank you! I do so value your… expertise in pointing out flaws!”*
She preened, mistaking my words for praise. Bless her naivety.
*”Since you’re so knowledgeable,”* I continued, lifting a neatly wrapped box from my chair, *”I’ve brought you a gift!”*
Eyes turned our way as she tore at the ribbon, no doubt expecting perfume or jewels.
Inside, ladies, was an elegantly printed certificate—for a session with a renowned therapist. The title? *”How to Build Self-Esteem Without Tearing Others Down.”* I read it aloud, ensuring every soul in that room—nay, every cabbie passing by—heard it.
*”Here you are, dear sister!”* I chirped as her face froze. *”Thought you might find this useful. Help you feel truly confident—without stepping on others!”*
The look on her face! First confusion, then dawning horror, then cheeks flushed beetroot red.
Silence. Then Uncle George snorted. The room erupted in laughter. All her barbed comments had come home to roost. She’d meant to shame me—instead, she’d shamed herself.
She muttered something, grabbed her bag, and bolted.
Now, before you ask—yes, we made peace. We’re sisters, after all.
But from that day? Not a single dig about my appearance. Just polite chatter about the weather. And you know what? It’s rather lovely.
So there you have it. If this struck a chord, do share your own tales—ever faced something similar? And if you pass it along to a friend, well, all the better!
