My Sister Faked Being Sick For Attention For Years, Here's What Finally Exposed Her
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My little sister was born two months prematurely, came out bluer than a Smurf, and spent the first three years of her life hooked up to tubes and machines. Naturally, my parents were super protective of her. They'd stay by her side, buy every toy she wanted, and demand I ditch hanging with friends to babysit her. At first, I thought this was right—she was my chronically ill baby sister. But then she got older, she got healthier, she no longer needed tubes or machines and could live normally. However, by this point, she had learned that being sick got her whatever she wanted, whether that be materialistic things or just sympathy and attention.
It started with her headaches mysteriously coming back whenever she was doing homework. My parents would take the homework away before replacing it with ice cream. By the time Emma turned 11 and I was 16, she had perfected her act, and that really bothered me because her pain only struck during my moments. When I made varsity soccer, she developed mysterious stomach cramps that required my parents to leave my first game early. When I got accepted into college, she collapsed during my celebration dinner, and we spent the night in the ER where doctors found nothing wrong. The worst part was how she'd smirk at me when our parents weren't looking. She even practiced her pain faces in the mirror. I tried showing my parents once, but Emma had already told them I was jealous of the attention she needed for her condition.
My boyfriend Jake lasted 8 months before Emma got to him. She created fake screenshots of messages where I supposedly called her a faker and wished she would just die already. The breakup happened at a coffee shop; Jake slid his phone across the table, showing me the evidence Emma had compiled. He said he couldn't be with someone who treated their sick sister so cruelly. Emma texted me a selfie wearing the hoodie Jake had given me—that was my breaking point. For 5 years, I had watched her steal everything, so I started watching her closely, way more closely than anyone ever had, and I noticed a pattern. Every time she was in pain, she always grabbed her right side—whether that's her head, her kidney, always right side. She always called specifically for mom, always rated her pain between 8 and 10, and always recovered in exactly 2 to 3 hours, which was just long enough to ruin what I had planned.
Once I knew this, I developed my plan, and last Sunday it went down better than I ever could have hoped for. We were having our monthly family dinner with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. 20 minutes before dinner, I went up to the bathroom where I recorded a video. I explained in the video that I was about to make a fake announcement about getting promoted at work. In this video, I predicted exactly how Emma would react. I said she would wait for the applause to die down, then grab her right side and whimper for mom. She would rate her pain as an 8, 9, or 10, she would need to lie down immediately, and she would ask mom to take her to the hospital if the pain doesn't get better within 20 minutes.
At dinner, I stood up and clinked my glass. I got everyone's attention, then announced I had just been promoted with a huge raise. Everyone applauded and congratulated me, uncles patting my back, cousins hugging me, my mother with tears of pride in her eyes. The sound of clapping echoed through the dining room, mixed with congratulations and jokes about how I could finally pay my own bills. Uncle Roberto made a joke about me becoming the rich niece of the family, while grandma was already planning out loud how I could help with her medications. I kept the smile on my face, waving and thanking everyone, but my eyes were fixed on Emma.
She was sitting at the other end of the long table, between my cousin Marcus and Aunt Sandra, absent-mindedly playing with the mashed potatoes on her plate. For a moment, she almost seemed genuinely happy for me—almost. But I knew her too well. I saw when something changed in her expression. It was subtle, as it always was—a small contraction around the eyes, a slight stiffening of the shoulders. She looked around the table, noticing how all attention was focused on me, how people were really excited about my achievement, how I was shining. And then it began.
First, she stopped eating. She let her fork drop onto her plate with a low clink that only a few people nearby noticed. Aunt Sandra asked if she was okay, but Emma just shook her head with a forced smile, one of those she used when she wanted to appear brave despite the pain. I continued talking with Uncle Pedro about the details of the promotion, lying shamelessly about responsibilities I didn't have and a salary that didn't exist, but part of me was timing it: 3, 2, 1. Like a Swiss watch, she brought her hand to the right side of her abdomen. The first moan was almost inaudible, a low sigh that mixed with the noise of conversations, but Emma knew exactly how to project her voice so it seemed like she was trying to hide something.
My cousin Marcus, who was beside her, stopped in the middle of a story about his new job. "Emma, everything okay there?" he asked, leaning slightly toward her. "It's nothing," she murmured, but loud enough for at least half the table to hear. Her voice had that specific tone—brave, but with a hint of vulnerability that always melted people's hearts. "Just a little pain." And so began the show I had watched so many times before.
Aunt Sandra immediately turned completely toward Emma, forgetting the conversation she was having with Grandpa about politics. "What kind of pain, dear? Where does it hurt?" Emma curved slightly in her chair, a perfect performance calculated to the millimeter—not too dramatic that would seem fake, just enough to show real discomfort. "It's... It's here, on the right side," she said, pressing her hand against the side of her body. "It came out of nowhere."
I watched the change happen in real time. Conversations began to lower in volume, glances gradually turned toward Emma. My promotion, which minutes ago was the center of attention, began to disappear into the background, replaced by the automatic family concern that always surrounded my sister. Mom, who was beside me laughing at a story Uncle Carlos was telling, suddenly stopped mid-laugh. That expression I knew so well began to take over her face—the maternal panic that Emma knew how to invoke with surgical precision.
"Emma, what happened, my love?" Mom was already halfway up from her chair, napkin falling to the floor. Emma raised her eyes to her—always to Mom first, never to Dad; I had noticed this pattern years ago. "Mom, it's hurting quite a bit," she whispered, her voice trembling just the right amount—not too much, not too little, enough to sound genuine but not so much that it seemed theatrical. Dad, as always, went into problem-solving mode. "What kind of pain? Cramps? Burning? Stabbing?" "It's a dull pain," Emma answered, closing her eyes as if concentrating to describe it, "but really strong, and it's getting worse."
Grandma crossed herself, Uncle Roberto frowned with concern, cousin Carla was already asking if anyone had any medicine in their purse. The attention of the entire room had completely shifted from me to Emma, like water going down a drain. I kept smiling, kept participating in the speculations about what could be causing Emma's pain, but inside I was fascinated, watching the machine work. It was like watching a conductor directing an orchestra—each moan, each expression of pain, each word chosen to get exactly the desired reaction.
"On a scale of 1 to 10?" Dad asked, already grabbing the car keys from the sideboard near the table. This question had become a sacred ritual in our family over the years. Emma paused for a moment, as if she were really evaluating the intensity of the pain—another brilliant touch; if she answered immediately, it might seem rehearsed. "It's... It's an eight," she said finally, her voice coming out weaker, "maybe nine." Of course it was. It was never less than eight, never 10—that would be too dramatic, too obvious. Always between 8 and 9, enough to be alarming but not so much that it would raise suspicions.
I watched the entire family dynamic reorganize around Emma’s pain. Aunt Sandra began telling about when she had kidney stones, Grandma murmured about how the girl had suffered so much since she was little, cousin Julia was already suggesting that maybe it was appendicitis. My promotion had become a distant memory in less than 5 minutes. Emma curved a little more, bringing her second hand to the right side to support the first. "Mom, I think... I think I need to lie down," she whispered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. And then she did that thing that always made me want to scream—she looked directly at me, just for a second, when she was sure no one else was looking, and she smiled. A SMALL smile, almost imperceptible, but it was there—the smile of someone who had just scored a goal.
"Maybe we should take her to the hospital," Mom said, already standing up completely. "Sarah, can you drive? I’m too nervous." It was at that moment that I felt something snap inside me. It wasn’t anger anymore; it was something colder, more calculated. Everyone stood up, preparing to transform what should have been my night of celebration into another rush to the emergency room, another night spent in waiting rooms while doctors ran tests that would show nothing. I stood up too, but instead of grabbing my purse, I grabbed my phone.
"Wait," I said, my voice coming out calmer than I felt. "Before we go running to the hospital, there’s something you all need to see." Emma looked at me, and for the first time, I detected something different in her expression—a hint of suspicion, maybe even fear, but she was too committed to the performance to stop now. "Sarah, this isn’t the time for this," she said, her voice still weak and suffering. "I’m in a lot of pain." "I know exactly how much pain you’re feeling," I replied, unlocking my phone, "and I know exactly when it’s going to pass."
Aunt Sandra frowned. "Sarah, what do you mean by that?" I held the phone in the air, my finger hovering over the play button. "I recorded a video 20 minutes ago. You’re going to want to watch this." Emma went completely still, her hand still stuck to the right side, her expression still showing pain, but something had changed. It was as if she had realized the ground was moving under her feet but still didn’t know exactly why. "What video?" Mom asked, still torn between concern for Emma and curiosity about what I was doing.
I looked directly at Emma, seeing the exact moment she understood that something was terribly wrong. Her eyes wide slightly, but she couldn’t abandon the act now, not in front of the whole family. "A video that’s going to explain a lot," I said and pressed play. My voice came out clear and firm from the phone speaker: "It’s 6:40 p.m. on Sunday. In 20 minutes, I’m going to make a false announcement about a promotion at work during family dinner. When I do this, Emma will wait for the applause to finish, then she’ll hold the right side of her body and call for Mom. She’ll rate the pain as 8 or 9, she’ll ask to lie down, and if she follows the pattern, she’ll suggest going to the hospital in exactly 15 minutes."
The silence in the room was so dense I could hear the tick-tock of the wall clock. All eyes turned to Emma, who had become completely petrified, her hand still glued to the right side as if it had been stuck there. "She always holds the right side," my recorded voice continued mercilessly, "no matter what type of pain it is—head, stomach, kidney, always the right side. Always calls specifically for Mom first, and she always recovers in 2 to 3 hours, just enough time to ruin any important moment of mine."
Grandma was the first to find her voice. "Emma, is this... is this true?" Emma tried to recover, but I could see the panic growing in her eyes. "I... I don’t know what Sarah is talking about," she stammered, trying to return to the suffering tone of voice. "I’m really in pain. Don’t you believe me?" "I’m not done yet," I said, pausing the first video. "That was just the appetizer." I navigated to the next folder on my phone, a collection I had been meticulous in compiling over the past few months. "Do you want to see what really happened at high school graduation?"
"Sarah, stop this," Emma whispered, but her voice had lost all that theatrical fragility; now it sounded sharp, almost threatening. I played the next video. It was a recording from the school’s security camera that I had gotten through a friend who worked in administration. The image showed Emma in the side hallway of the school, near the water fountains, 5 minutes before the ceremony began. She was completely alone, checking her phone, then suddenly she put the phone away, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and started practicing. There, alone in the hallway, my sister was rehearsing expressions of pain. She frowned, brought her hand to her chest, made different grimaces in the reflection of the glass window. She was literally rehearsing which would be the most convincing.
"My God," Aunt Sandra murmured, her hand flying to cover her mouth. "Wait, there’s more," I said, moving to the next file. "Remember when Jake broke up with me? When he said I was cruel to my sick sister?" Emma went pale. "Sarah, don’t." "These are the original messages she sent to Jake, pretending to be me." I showed the screenshots I had managed to recover from her phone’s backup—another favor I got from a tech friend. "Look at the dates and times. She waited for me to leave the house to use my computer and create fake accounts. The messages were cruel, saying horrible things about Emma that I would never think, let alone write, but they were written in my style, with slang I used, details that only someone who knew me well would know to include."
Dad took my phone with trembling hands, reading message by message. His expression grew darker with each line. "She even researched my class schedules to know when I wouldn’t be home," I continued. "She created a fake Facebook profile with my photo," added Jake as a friend, and started sending these messages pretending to be me. When he confronted me about the messages, she pretended to be shocked and said, ‘I must have let someone use my computer.’" "Emma," Mom said, her voice coming out as a broken whisper, "this can’t be true." "But it is," I said, feeling a dark satisfaction watching Emma’s house of cards begin to crumble. "And there’s more, much more."
I moved to the next file, an audio recording I had secretly made the previous month. "This is Emma on the phone with her friend Beatrice last week." Emma’s voice came out clear from the phone: "It’s really easy, Bea. You just need to know the right spots. Mom gets desperate if I say it’s a headache on the right side, but if I say it’s in the stomach, she takes longer to react. And it always works better when Sarah is having a good day—then everyone feels sorry for me and gets irritated with her for being insensitive." Beatrice laughed in the recording: "You’re terrible, Emma, but your sister really is kind of annoying anyway." Emma continued: "She was always the favorite, always had everything easy. At least when I pretend to be sick, I manage to get them to pay attention to me too. And it’s fun to see her getting frustrated."
The silence that followed was deadly. Emma was white as paper, trembling, and this time the trembling was real. "Emma," Grandma said, her voice loaded with a disappointment that cut through the air, "how could you?" "There’s more," I said, relentless. "Do you want to see the video of when she fainted at my 18th birthday party?" This time, Emma tried to get up, probably to run away, but Uncle Roberto gently held her by the shoulders. "Stay there, Emma. I think you need to hear this." The video showed Emma in the backyard, hidden behind the barbecue grill, 10 minutes before making her big dramatic entrance. She was testing different ways to faint on the grass, checking which angle would be most convincing and least dangerous. She practiced for 15 minutes. My voice narrated in the video: "She tested falling sideways, falling forward, falling backward. She chose the side because the grass was softer there."
Cousin Carla made a sound that was half-shocked laughter, half groan of disbelief. "Emma, this is... this is sick." "It’s not sick," I said, finally putting the phone away. "It’s calculated, systematic. She turned manipulation into an art." Emma finally exploded. "Okay, okay, damn it! Do you want the truth? I faked it. I faked it a few times, yes, but you don’t understand!" The tears started rolling, but now they were different—tears of anger, of frustration, of someone caught red-handed. "Do you think it’s easy being perfect Sarah’s sister? Sarah, the smart one, Sarah, the popular one, Sarah who never does anything wrong? Do you know what it’s like to grow up in her shadow?"
"So you decided to sabotage me?" I replied coldly. "Destroy my relationships, ruin my important moments, make everyone think I’m a cruel and insensitive sister?" "Because you had everything!" Emma screamed, all pretense of being sick completely abandoned. "You always had everything, and me? I was just the sister who almost died as a baby. The only way you’d pay attention to me was when I was sick!" "But you weren’t sick," Dad said, his voice low but loaded with deep disappointment. "You were lying for years and sabotaging your sister’s life in the process." Mom added, tears streaming down her face, "Emma, how could you be so cruel?"
"Cruel?" Emma laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "Do you want to know what’s cruel? It’s growing up watching your sister get congratulated for breathing while you need to almost die for someone to notice you." "You were never almost dying," I exploded. "At least not in the last 5 years. You were acting, manipulating, lying because it worked!" "Because it was the only thing that worked!" she screamed back. Uncle Roberto slowly stood up from his chair. "I... I think I better leave," he said, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. "No," I said firmly. "Stay, all of you, because there’s one more thing."
Emma looked at me with pure terror. "Sarah, don’t." "Tell them about the money," I said, my voice low but sharp as a blade. "What money?" Mom asked. Emma remained silent, but her expression was confession enough. "The money you gave her to buy medicine," I continued, "those expensive medicines the doctor supposedly prescribed, the ones she said health insurance didn’t cover." Dad went livid. "Emma, tell me you didn’t." "She spent it on makeup, clothes, going out with friends," I said. "I have the bank statements. I have photos of the purchases she posted on Instagram. You gave her over 3,000 reais in the last 6 months." "3,000 reais?" Grandma repeated, incredulous. "Which she spent on everything except medicine," I completed, "because she didn’t need any medicine, because she was never sick."
Emma began to sob, but now no one moved to comfort her. It was as if an invisible barrier had formed around her. "15 years," Mom whispered. "15 years believing, worrying, cancelling plans, losing nights of sleep." "And I lost 15 years of my life," I added. "15 years being treated as the cruel and insensitive sister, 15 years watching my important moments get destroyed, 15 years being blamed for not having enough patience with the sick sister."
Emma raised her face, tears making tracks in her makeup. "Sarah, I... I’m sorry. I’m really sorry." "Now you’re sorry," I said, "now that you’ve been caught." Aunt Sandra shook her head, getting up from the table. "Emma, I... I don’t know what to say. This is... This is very serious." "You all know now," I said, looking around the table. "You all know what kind of person she really is. You know what she did to me, to this family, for years."
Emma tried to get up, probably to flee, but Mom held her by the arm. "No," Mom said, her voice firmer than I had heard in years. "You’re going to stay here. You’re going to listen to everything. You’re going to face what you did." And it was at that moment that I knew I had succeeded. It wasn’t just about exposure; it was about justice. Finally, after all these years, the truth had come to light. But I still wasn’t finished. There was still one last card to play, and this would be the one that would really finish Emma once and for all.
"There’s one more thing," I said, pulling up a chair and sitting directly in front of Emma. The last piece of the puzzle. Emma looked at me with red and swollen eyes; all the fight had gone out of her. "Sarah, please. They understand now." "No, they don’t understand everything yet," I replied, taking my phone again. "Because you still don’t know about Mike." The name fell like a bomb in the room. Emma went white as paper. "Mike? Your ex-boyfriend?" Mom asked, confused. "But you broke up because he moved to Denver." "No," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Emma. "We broke up because my dear little sister hit on him, and he... Well, he fell for her."
Emma started trembling. "Sarah, don’t." "Show them the messages you sent him," I said coldly, "the photos you sent." "What photos?" Dad asked, his voice becoming dangerous. "Emma here found out that Mike was going to propose to me," I continued, savoring each word. "He had told me he wanted to buy a ring, and our dear Emma couldn’t let that pass, could she?" Emma was practically hyperventilating now. "So she started sending messages to him, first pretending she was worried about me, saying I wasn’t ready for marriage, then the photos started." I took my phone and showed the screenshots I had gotten from Mike’s phone before we broke up—lingerie photos, provocative photos, messages saying how she always had a crush on him.
Aunt Sandra made a sound of disgust. "Emma, that’s so low." "And it worked," I continued. "Mike started responding. They started meeting in secret. She would pretend to have medical appointments to go to his apartment." "Oh my God," Grandma murmured, covering her face with her hands. "But you know what the most pathetic part is?" I laughed bitterly. "She only gave up on him when she saw I was coming out on top, even after the breakup, when she saw I got that incredible job, that I was happy alone, that I wasn’t destroyed like she expected."
Emma finally found her voice, but it was just a broken whisper. "Sarah, I..." "You what, Emma?" I exploded. "You’re sorry? You were confused? You were sick?" I got up from the chair and stood in front of her, feeling years of anger finally finding its voice. "No, you simply can’t see me happy. You can’t see me having something you don’t have. You want to be me, Emma, but here’s the truth that’s going to hurt more than any lie you’ve ever told." The room was in absolute silence, all eyes on me.
"You’ll never be me. You’ll never even come close. You can’t even be the dirt under my shoe that I stepped on last week." Emma sobbed, but I wasn’t finished. "Because you know what the difference between us is? When I want something, I work for it. I deserve what I have. You? You only know how to destroy, lie, manipulate. You’re an empty person, desperately trying to steal someone else’s life because you don’t have the courage to build your own."
"Sarah, please," Emma whimpered. "Please nothing," I screamed. "You destroyed three of my relationships. Three! Jake with the false messages, Tyler when you lied that I was cheating on him, and now Mike. Three men I loved that you drove away from me because you can’t stand to see me happy." Dad stood up, his face distorted with anger. "Emma, is this true?" Emma couldn’t even speak, just cried.
"And you know what Mike told me when I confronted him?" I continued mercilessly. "He said you told him I never really loved him, that I was just using him until I found someone better, that you knew the real side of me." "That’s not true," Emma finally screamed. "Of course it’s not true," I exploded back, "but you planted the seed of doubt in his head. You seduced him when he was vulnerable. You destroyed the most serious relationship I ever had because you can’t stand that someone loves me more than they love you."
Uncle Roberto got up from the table. "I... I can’t anymore. Emma, this is... this is sick." "Sick is an understatement," said Aunt Sandra, shaking her head. "This is psychopathic." One by one, people started getting up, but before they could leave, I raised my voice again. "Wait. I want all of you to look at her closely." Emma was hunched over in the chair, crying like a child. "Look closely at the girl you protected, that you spoiled, that you let torture me for years. Look at the monster you created."
"Sarah," Mom tried to interrupt. "No," I cut her off. "You’re going to hear this. You’re going to hear everything." I turned to Emma again. "Do you want to know why you’ll never be me? Because I have something you’ll never have. I have character. I have dignity. When I make mistakes, I own up to them. When I want something, I earn it with honor. You? You’re a pathetic faker who needs to steal crumbs from my life to feel relevant. You’re so small, so insignificant, that the only way you find to exist is by destroying other people."
Emma was shaking violently now. "And now everyone knows. Everyone sees you for what you really are—a liar, a manipulator, an empty person who spends her whole life trying to be someone she’ll never be." I turned to the family. "And you, you who always took her side, who always made me feel like the villain, I hope you’re proud. Because this is the daughter, the granddaughter, the niece you raised."
Grandma was crying. "Sarah, we didn’t know." "Of course you didn’t know," I replied coldly, "because you never wanted to know. It was easier to believe I was the bad sister than to admit your little darling was a demon." I looked at Emma one last time. She seemed to have shrunk in the chair, small and pathetic. "Congratulations, Emma. You finally got what you always wanted. You’re the center of attention. Everyone is looking at you." I made a dramatic pause. "Too bad it’s for all the wrong reasons."
I grabbed my purse and walked toward the door. "Oh, and Emma, when you’re alone in your room tonight, crying about how your life fell apart, I want you to remember something." I turned to look at her one last time. "You did this to yourself. Every lie, every manipulation, every moment of pure evil—you chose this. And now you’re going to live with the consequences."
"Where are you going?" Mom asked, tears streaming down her face. "Away from here," I replied. "Away from this toxic family, this sick dynamic, and especially away from her." I pointed at Emma without even looking in her direction. "I’m going where I should have gone years ago. I’m going to build a life where people like her can’t reach me."
The door slammed behind me, but not before I heard Emma start screaming—not from fake pain this time, but from real agony, the agony of finally having to face who she really was. And for the first time in years, the sound of her pain didn’t make me feel guilty. It made me feel free.