“Ellen, that’s a lovely outfit,” my mother said.

“Thanks!” my sister replied. “I got this dress yesterday.”

“Well, you look very pretty, as usual.”

As usual. As usual. Ellen was flawless as usual.

Ellen is skinny, and her brown curls are like Taylor Swift’s. She always wears fashionable clothing, and my parents are always proud of her for something. I used to go into her room when she wasn’t home to try on her dresses and test out her makeup. When I was on the verge of being a teenager, I naturally wanted the beauty she possessed, and put all my effort into trying to obtain it. Often I wished I was more like Ellen and less like myself.

A lot of the time it felt as if I was living in her shadow; she was older and had accomplished more. Once a friend of mine saw Ellen for the first time and said, “Wow, Eve, your sister is so pretty!”

Though it should not have been a big deal, I felt envy begin to germinate inside me. Although people complimented my hair or outfit, I had never been called pretty – but Ellen was often labeled that way.

During family dinners we’d talk a bit about my day at school, or about the sports practice I’d had, but my conversations with my parents petered out pretty quickly. The topics that had to do with my sister, on the other hand, my parents could talk about seemingly forever. It was understandable – my sister was a senior and heading to college soon, so there was a lot to discuss – but it was frustrating how significant the difference was.

As the youngest, after I passed that “cute” point, it was as if I didn’t exist. Ellen would always remind me, “Everyone knows the oldest is the most loved.” I craved my parents’ attention and was angry at Ellen for always stealing the spotlight.

Though it sounds mean, I was excited for Ellen to leave for college, because it meant no more living in her shadow. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t miss her; in fact, I missed her a lot and looked forward to her return for the holidays. But with her gone, I felt better about myself. In time I felt more like my own person than a big sister wannabe.

I recall a time, before Ellen left for college, when I’d go to the mall with her and not even try something on if she didn’t love it. Flash forward to when she came home for the holidays and started wearing the clothes I bought while she was away at college. I wasn’t thrilled that my clothes were missing, but I felt proud that she wanted to wear them. For years the roles had been reversed, and I had wanted to wear everything of hers. It gave me satisfaction to know my sister wasn’t judging my taste like I feared she would.

One Mother’s Day, when Ellen was home, we went to a farm to pick out flowers. My sister and I scanned the fragrant rainbow, looking for the single color that would give our garden the X factor. I spied a flower that seemed as if it was tie-dyed with a blend of reddish orange and white.

“Oh, that one is really pretty,” I said in awe.

“I like it too,” Ellen agreed.

“What? Really?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “Why are you so surprised?”

“You almost never like what I like!”

“Well, of course not. We aren’t the same person.”

We aren’t the same person. The sentence echoed in my head. She was completely right. Why was I trying so hard to be like her? Never in a million years would I ever be exactly like Ellen. It was time to start finding what I liked about myself.