When Amy was born, the midwife told her mother that she would be lucky, as if she were born with a silver spoon in her mouth. And until the age of five, Amy was indeed quite content: her mother would braid her hair, read picture books with her, occasionally getting annoyed when Amy didn’t want to remember letters, while her father taught her how to ride a bike and took her to the countryside, letting her steer along country paths.
When Amy turned five, her parents informed her that she would soon have a baby brother.
“A birthday gift for you,” they said.
And indeed, the gift arrived just in time for her birthday, claiming all her future celebrations. From his very first year, Peter seemed to command special attention in the family. Initially because he was the baby, but later because he was a prodigy.
Peter learned to read before Amy, who still read slowly at twenty. Nowadays, it would be called dyslexia, but back then, terms like that weren’t known, and Amy was sent to a remedial class. Peter counted so expertly that even his math teacher was astounded and went off to call her professor, not to mention the rather unique but original poems he crafted.
Thus, Amy’s happy days dwindled; not only did she have to share her birthday with her brother, but her whole life now revolved around Peter. It was Amy who escorted him to school, English lessons, swimming, to Professor David, and to poetry classes. When Amy wanted to join a home economics club, her mother protested:
“Do you want me to quit my job to take Peter to his lessons? You only think of yourself!”
So, Amy relented. If she managed everything—tracked Peter’s intricate schedule, prepared two different dinners since Peter had been a vegetarian since age six while her father couldn’t go a day without meat—and especially if she brought home money by walking neighbors’ dogs, her mother would praise and pat her on the head.
Amy had her hair cut because her mother had no time for braiding it anymore. Mornings were spent repeating English with Peter or writing down his nocturnal poetry, while Amy fumbled with messy ponytails, receiving red-marked notes from the teacher in her diary. Amy’s mother disliked those comments and took her to the hairdresser for a tidy short cut, which, although neat, left Amy tearful for her lost braids.
“Finish school, and then do as you please,” her mother would say whenever Amy weakly protested a new brother-related task. “It makes no difference to you; you do nothing but read your recipes.”
Even after both her and Peter’s schooling ended, Amy didn’t gain freedom. By then, along with preparing meals rich in nutrients, ironing, and laundering clothes—alongside other household chores—Amy had also become something like Peter’s secretary. She managed his schedule, monitored competitions, sorted his mail. When she mentioned wanting to work at a dog shelter, not only her mother but Peter too scolded her, saying he’d be lost without her.
So, Amy gave in once more.
She only rebelled against the ongoing unfairness when she met William.
William wasn’t traditionally handsome—tall, heavyset, he spent most of his time writing code on his computer. His family gave him a dog hoping he’d get outside more, but instead, he hired Amy for walks—that’s how they met. Somehow, it naturally turned into her staying over soon after walking his dog.
Amy’s mother would call, demanding she return home—she detested ironing shirts, and Peter wouldn’t wear anything else. Peter too would complain, saying nobody was there to sharpen his pencils, and lamenting that there was only pie his dad brought back, as his mother was on another diet.
“Leave me alone!” Amy would shout. “I’m not your maid!”
William would kiss her tear-streaked face, promising that one day they’d marry. Then he left for America for a job offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Sorry,” he said simply.
When Peter was announced as an award recipient, their parents almost burst with pride, telling every neighbor. Their mother rushed to book a beauty salon appointment, while their father was particularly interested in the prize money, wanting a new car he couldn’t afford otherwise, hoping his son might spare a share.
Amy’s workload increased too—besides the usual chores, she now had to handle active correspondence, book flights, find accommodations with pools and vegetarian menus, and more. She was so exhausted by the time they landed and everything was prepared—the tuxedo, the speech, the audience eagerly awaiting—that she peered out from behind the curtain, kissed her brother on the cheek in weary anticipation of finding a seat.
A tall security guard blocked her path to the auditorium.
“Staff aren’t permitted in there,” he said.
“What?” Amy questioned.
“Wait backstage for your employer,” a younger guard added with a haughty look. “In that shabby outfit, there’s no place for you inside.”
Amy glanced at her old dress—not that she lacked others, simply didn’t have time to change. But it wasn’t really about the outfit; they mistook her for staff. They weren’t far off—she’d served long enough.
Her brother looked at her with surprise, and for a moment, Amy thought he might tell the guards, “Let her through; she’s my sister.” But Peter stayed silent as the host called his name loudly, and he proceeded to the stage without a glance back.
She sank into a low chair by the wall, eyes closed, mentally listing tasks: retrieve the suit from the cleaner, book the hotel and dinner, sort out the neglected emails—with all the upcoming congratulatory messages to handle!
Although she didn’t listen to Peter’s speech, Amy remembered it from yesterday’s rehearsal—thank you to the parents, to mentors; it was supposed to be perfect. Instead of the expected acknowledgment to his parents (who were likely exchanging triumphant glances, asserting each believed their contribution was the greatest, while they imagined Professor David tumbling from his heavenly perch), Peter said:
“I should say something else entirely, but listen… There’s truly a single person responsible for me standing here now.”
Amy instantly pictured her proud parents misjudging his words, eager for credit, oblivious to the implication that even heaven-sent Professor David might be off balance by now.
“She dedicated her life to me. I hardly noticed, taking it for granted. It’s time to repay that dedication, although, honestly, her role in my life is invaluable, and even all the treasures in the world couldn’t truly reward her.”
Their father probably had the tell-tale vein on his forehead out of anger, while their mother, likely flushed and tearful from joy.
“I dedicate this day to you. All the money I receive today is yours, to build the dog shelter you’ve dreamed of and do whatever makes you happy.”
The words hung differently, drawing nearer somehow. When Peter pulled Amy to the stage, it took her a moment to grasp the reality.
“Meet my sister, Amy. Without her, I’d never have achieved anything,” Peter declared.
Applause thundered, blinding stage lights beaming. As the moment dawned, Amy looked at Peter, gratitude in her eyes. He returned the gaze, smiling—healing, forgiving a lost William, an unjoined home economics club, lonely dogs in the shelter. Standing under the spotlight, small and frightened, her spirit kindled, and she straightened up.
True to his word, Peter gave her everything, hiring a young assistant whom Amy trained to take her place.
“You’re no longer my servant,” Peter stated. “Forgive me, Amy. I was such a blind fool.”
And forgive she did. Establishing the dog shelter, Amy enrolled in pastry school, opening her small business—often working the service counter herself, but realizing all was as she’d dreamt. One chilly October evening, just as she was closing up, the doorbell chimed. Amy smiled warmly at the tall man in a dark coat, ready to ask his preference but fallen speechless.
William stood before her—trim, intense, wearied, yet familiar.
“You came back…”
Amy’s knees wavered; she steadied herself on the counter.
“Amy,” he smiled, “Forgive my foolishness; I was so wrong…”
Well, if the second most important man in her life is apologizing, what more could one hope for?
Her father never asked forgiveness. He and her mother stopped speaking to Amy, convinced she’d persuaded Peter to hand over everything. But such things didn’t matter—parents were parents, like it or not. And William… he’d returned, and Amy’s future now promised to be bright.
