My sister called me failure...

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Growing up, my sister Aaliyah always acted superior to me. Perfect grades, student council president, full scholarship to Harvard. She had this way of tilting her chin up when discussing achievements, her voice taking on that particular tone of someone looking down from some intellectual mountaintop. Meanwhile, I was the "artistic one" - the family's consolation prize - painting in our converted garage, surrounded by canvases smelling of turpentine and possibility.
The garage was my sanctuary, a world apart from Aaliyah's carefully organized bedroom with its color-coded textbooks and achievement certificates covering the walls. Dad installed proper lighting after seeing how serious I was about my work, but Aaliyah called it "Maya's messy hideout," always wrinkling her nose at the chemical fumes whenever she passed by.
"How can you even think in here?" she'd ask, stepping carefully around my easels. "Don't you want a clean, professional workspace someday?"
I'd just shrug and continue mixing colors on my palette. The garage felt more alive to me than any sterile office ever could.
When Aaliyah came home from Harvard Law during breaks, she'd make her rounds through the house like visiting royalty, rolling her eyes at my canvases. "Still playing with finger paints, Maya?" she'd say with that practiced laugh that made my stomach twist. "When are you planning to get a real job? Some of us are building careers that actually matter to society."
What Aaliyah didn't know was that I'd been quietly selling my artwork online for nearly two years. It started on Instagram, posting pieces for friends. But then strangers began discovering my paintings, sharing them, commenting with genuine enthusiasm. Within months, I was receiving commission requests from private collectors, people who understood the emotion I poured into every brushstroke. My abstract paintings were gaining serious traction in circles Aaliyah didn't even know existed.
Aaliyah graduated top of her class and immediately joined Morrison & Associates, one of the most prestigious law firms in the city. She never tired of mentioning her starting salary. "$180,000," she'd repeat at family gatherings, letting the number hang in the air like incense. "Finally, someone in this family is actually successful."
Family dinners became increasingly torturous affairs. Aaliyah would dominate conversations with stories about important cases while I sat quietly, letting everyone assume I was still struggling. But here's what nobody knew: I was making close to $50,000 every month. I had collectors from Dubai, New York, and London commissioning pieces months in advance. My Instagram had grown to nearly three million followers. Just last week, one painting sold for $80,000 to a collector in Switzerland.
I kept quiet because Aaliyah never bothered asking meaningful questions about my work. She simply assumed I was wasting my life creating purposeless pictures.
Last month, during one of her typical monologues, Aaliyah mentioned that her firm was planning to redecorate their lobby. The partners wanted something "modern and sophisticated" for their high-profile clients. The budget was substantial: $200,000 for a single statement piece.
"Too bad we don't know any real artists," Aaliyah had laughed. "Not the hobby kind, obviously. Someone with actual credentials and museum representation."
I smiled, already envisioning the perfect piece.
Two weeks later, Aaliyah called me, her voice shaking with uncertainty. "Maya, you need to come to my office right now. There's something here you absolutely have to see."
When I arrived at the gleaming downtown building, Aaliyah stood motionless in the marble lobby, staring up at my latest creation - a massive 12-foot abstract composition in flowing blues and gold that I'd titled "Justice Flow."
"This painting," Aaliyah whispered, "it looks exactly like your style. But this artist commands six figures. They're internationally renowned. The nameplate says M. Rivera."
I calmly pulled out my phone, opening Instagram to show her the exact painting. "2.8 million followers," I said softly, displaying the verification checkmark and thousands of enthusiastic comments.
"Meet M. Rivera," I continued. "Maya Rivera. Your finger-painting little sister."
Aaliyah's face went completely white.
"The firm paid $200,000 for this piece. You painted this?"
At that moment, her boss approached us, smiling. "Aaliyah! I see you've met our featured artist. We're absolutely honored to have an original M. Rivera gracing our lobby. Her work has been exhibited in the Guggenheim."
I watched Aaliyah's expression shift as she grasped that her "unsuccessful" sister had just earned more from a single painting than Aaliyah's entire annual salary.