How I Found Out I Was the Least Favorite Child and a Bad Egg to My Family Members

The chipped mug warmed my hands, but the lukewarm tea did little to soothe the knot in my stomach. It was another "family gathering," feeling less like togetherness and more like a play where I was the only one without a script.
My sister, Sarah, bragged about her promotion. My brother, David, rambled about his failing pepper soup business. Then there was me, Emma. The middle child. The quiet one. My achievements were always met with polite nods before the conversation swung back to Sarah's triumphs or David's latest misadventure.

A cold understanding washed over me. It wasn't just the inheritance. It was everything. The slightly smaller food portions. The ill-fitting hand-me-downs. My opinions ignored. It wasn't malicious, but it was a clear pattern. I wasn't just less favored; I was irrelevant. The "bad egg."
The dark humor of the situation hit me. The truth, laid bare in such a cliché, absurd way. I fit the "least favorite child" trope perfectly.
That night, the rain outside mirrored the quiet storm within. The scrubbing brush on my dresser seemed to mock me. I thought of all my futile efforts to fit in, to gain their approval. A weary resignation settled over me.
The next morning, I packed a small bag. No note. No point.
Well, now I no longer contact them. It was hard, but I focused on my "impractical" artistic dreams. I started my own successful art business. I met my husband, who saw value in my "different" perspective. We now have two wonderful, messy, brilliant children who know they are loved, without a shadow of a doubt.

He read from a document: a small inheritance from a distant relative – a piece of valuable land. My heart fluttered. This was unexpected.
Then came the twist. "So," Dad concluded, folding the document, "we've decided Sarah and David will manage this. They have the… business acumen."
Silence. I stared. Sarah nodded. David looked surprisingly responsible. It was a done deal I was only just hearing about.
"What about me, Dad?" I whispered.
Dad looked at me, pity mixed with relief. "Emma, you… you've always been different. This wouldn't suit you."
"Different?" I echoed.
Sarah chimed in, too sweetly. "You're the artistic one, dear. Not practical for these matters."
David, ever blunt, added, "Yeah, you're into books and paints. Not this."

The first hint was almost comical. Mom was handing out gifts from the market. Sarah and Aunt Jane got vibrant scarves. David got a new football jersey. My turn came. Mom's hand hovered over a small, oddly wrapped package.
"Oh, Emma," she said, dismissively. "It's… practical. The last one."
Inside was a single, industrial-looking scrubbing brush. Sarah snickered. David grinned. "Looks like you drew the short straw, Emma!" Mom just offered a weak smile and moved on. It was small, but it stung.
The suspense built that evening. Dad, usually a man of few words, gathered us. He held a worn, brown envelope. "Something about… the family legacy," he said, his gaze lingering on Sarah and David.