When Amy was born, the midwife told her mother she was a lucky child—blessed, perhaps destined for a charmed life. And for the first five years, Amy did live in a world full of sunshine: her mother braided her hair while reading stories aloud, her father taught her to ride a bike and let her steer during countryside drives. Their world was simple and warm.

But everything changed when Amy turned five, and her parents announced that she’d be getting a baby brother.

“A birthday gift,” they called him.

And just like that, Amy’s birthday—and soon, everything else—belonged to Peter. At first, it was because he was the baby. Later, it was because Peter was “special.” By the time he was in kindergarten, he could read faster than Amy ever could. What would now be called dyslexia kept Amy behind, but at the time, no one named it. She was simply “slow.” Peter, meanwhile, was a wunderkind—writing poems, solving complex math problems, earning praise and attention that had once been hers.

As Peter grew, so did Amy’s responsibilities. She became his shadow, his chauffeur, his assistant. When she wanted to join a cooking club, her mother snapped, “Do you expect me to quit my job and take Peter to his poetry class? Think of someone else for once!”

So Amy didn’t go. She helped Peter, tracked his schedules, made his vegetarian dinners while also preparing meat for her father, and earned extra cash walking neighbors’ dogs. In return, she got the occasional pat on the head, and a quiet “good girl.”

Gone were her long braids—there was no time to style them. Her mornings were spent helping Peter with his English or copying his latest poem. The hairdresser’s “efficient” bob cut left her teary-eyed, but nobody noticed.

“Once you finish school, you’ll be free,” her mother would say, dismissing Amy’s quiet protests. “You only sit around reading recipes anyway.”

But freedom never came. When school ended, her chores didn’t. Peter was now her full-time job—organizing his letters, his contests, even his wardrobe. When she once mentioned her dream of working at a dog shelter, Peter said, “How would I manage without you?” Her mother nodded. And Amy gave in. Again.

Until she met William.

He wasn’t tall and dashing, but he was kind—and a bit socially awkward. His family gave him a dog, hoping he’d go outside more. Instead, he hired Amy to walk it. That’s how it started. Somehow, her walks turned into late-night dinners, and then sleepovers.

Her parents disapproved. Peter complained his shirts weren’t ironed. Her mother was outraged. Amy finally screamed, “I’m not your servant!”

William kissed her tear-stained face and promised to marry her one day. Then he got a job offer in America—and left.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and that was all.

Peter, meanwhile, won a prestigious award. The family buzzed with pride. Amy, naturally, handled all the logistics—hotels, speeches, meals. She didn’t even have time to change clothes before the event. Exhausted, she watched her brother take the stage from behind the curtains. When she tried to enter the hall, a security guard blocked her.

“No staff allowed inside.”

Staff. That’s what she’d become.

Peter saw her—looked her straight in the eyes—and said nothing. He turned and walked onto the stage alone.

Amy sank into a chair backstage, preparing to catch up on a mountain of Peter’s emails. She wasn’t expecting what happened next.

Peter, in front of hundreds, said, “I know I’m supposed to thank my mentors and parents. But the truth is, none of this would’ve happened without one person.”

Amy’s heart stopped.

“She gave up her life for mine. Her time, her dreams, her future. It’s time I gave something back.”

And then: “Amy, this award—this prize money—it’s yours. For your dog shelter. For your dreams.”

Peter called her onstage. Amy, stunned, stepped into the lights.

“This is my sister. Without her, I would be nothing.”

The crowd rose in thunderous applause. Amy looked at Peter—really looked at him—and saw for the first time that he truly understood.

He kept his word. He hired someone to take over the tasks Amy had once managed. “You’re free now,” he said. “I’m so sorry for how long it took.”

Amy forgave him. She opened her shelter, enrolled in pastry school, and started a small bakery—doing what she loved, at last.

One autumn evening, just before closing, the door chimed. There stood William—older, quieter, regret in his eyes.

“You came back,” Amy whispered.

“If the second most important man in your life is asking for forgiveness, will you consider it?” he asked gently.

She did.

Her parents never called. They believed she’d manipulated Peter. But that no longer mattered.

Amy finally had what she’d always wanted—not applause or awards, just the freedom to live for herself. And, finally, love that stayed.