On my twenty-eighth birthday, I opened Instagram and found out my family had surprised my sister with a trip to Hawaii. Under the post, my mother had written, “She’s the only one who makes us proud.”

On the morning of my twenty-eighth birthday, I woke up alone in my apartment in Columbus, Ohio, to a text from my mother that read, Call your sister today. Don’t make this about you. That was the entire message. No happy birthday. No joke. Not even my name. I stared at it for a full minute, then let out a short laugh, the kind that sounds closer to a choke.

I made coffee, opened Instagram, and immediately understood.

My younger sister, Maren, stood in our parents’ kitchen with both hands covering her mouth, crying over a box wrapped with a white ribbon. Inside were plane tickets, a hotel booking, and a printed card that said Hawaii, baby!!! My father was smiling in the background. My aunt had commented, She deserves this so much. Then I noticed my mother’s comment pinned near the top: She’s the only one who makes us proud.