Am I the Asshole/ Problem?

Am I the issue in the recurring arguments between my sister and I? I will try to be as objective as possible however seeing as I can’t exactly articulate my sister’s thoughts in all this, I may be a little opinionated. If I am in the wrong, please don’t hesitate to tell me; I’m asking here because I believe that I do indeed have a part to play in all this no matter how small. To skip to the relevant parts

I’m F24 and my sister is F23. We share a mother, and her father—my stepfather—raised me until he and my mother divorced in 2016. My sister and I have always been close, both figuratively and literally. We shared a room for most of our lives and went through a lot of family issues together.

Her father was abusive to our mother and showed both blatant and subtle favoritism toward my sister. I recognized that dynamic early, even before I fully understood what it meant that he wasn’t my biological father. He also had a son with my mother (M16), but even then, the favoritism toward my sister remained. She was perceptive enough to notice it and, in her own way, leaned into it—not to hurt me intentionally, but because she liked the advantage it gave her.

She was very coy and taciturn, not shy but simply observant so she didn’t speak much and yet she liked being included and enjoyed being around people. Because of her personality—unintentionally standoffish—people didn’t really like her unless they got to know her. We were a set however, so if they cast her aside, I was right there; the more agreeable, non-confrontational sister. I knew she compared us in that regard and sometimes felt envious of how easily I got along with people. And, if I’m being honest, because I already felt inferior at home, I took some satisfaction in that.

We lived on my stepfather’s property, surrounded by his family. For a long time, I thought they were mine too—his mother, his sisters, my sister’s cousins. But as I got older, it became clear from their behavior that they didn’t like my mother or me. That was another situation where I think my sister benefited, and perhaps even enjoyed it, though I don’t believe that, as a child, she fully understood how much it affected me.

Growing up in that environment, I adapted. I learned early on that I needed to please my stepfather to avoid being ignored, yelled at, or hit. Meanwhile, my sister was given more freedom. She was the biological child, the younger one, and she was coddled. She could ignore people, avoid discipline, or speak her mind without the same consequences. When her behavior wasn’t received well, the blame often fell on me or my mother. So I started compensating—trying to smooth things over, make things easier, make up for what others saw as her shortcomings.

Even now, I question how much of my personality is actually mine. I’ve gotten used to diffusing tension with humor, acting a bit vapid or overly easygoing just to keep things light. It’s almost instinctual at this point. And it’s exhausting. Sometimes I feel like if I stopped performing that version of myself, people would treat me the way they initially treated her—distant, dismissive. That thought lingers more than I’d like. This is a bit of a tangent, but it feels relevant.

After the divorce, we moved back to my mother’s ancestral home. It’s multigenerational—my aunt, her family, my grandfather. Space was limited at first, but being around my mother’s family felt different. There was a sense of security in knowing I belonged there, that I was loved simply because I was my mother’s daughter. That alone made me softer, more at ease.

Eventually, the household shifted—people passed away, the house expanded—and my sister and I ended up sharing a room again before later getting our own spaces.

Around that time, I got my first government job during COVID, so I was still earning while things were unstable. My sister had just finished school and wasn’t working yet, so I gave her 300 a month to clean my room. It was a small room—just a bed and a dresser—but it felt like a way to help her out. Whenever I got paid (usually 3500 or less), I’d take her and our brother out for food or clothes. Nothing extravagant, but it made me happy. I genuinely enjoy giving to my siblings.

I didn’t expect anything in return. Or at least, I thought I didn’t. But I do realize that I expect a certain level of gratitude. Maybe that’s unfair, but it mattered to me—especially because everyone knew I didn’t have much to give in the first place.

Eventually, my contract ended, and my sister got a job while I went back to studying. I struggled to get funding; she didn’t. Later, I found out why—she had been saving money for years. Our father had been sending her small amounts consistently, and she had also been receiving money from a family friend who favored her. She never mentioned any of it.

What stood out to me also was that he hasn’t shared until much later, that her allowance growing up was higher than mine and our brother’s. I got 30 a day for lunch and transport—an hour to and from—; she got 50 or more, despite having a shorter, free commute. She saved all of that quietly.

So when I was giving her money monthly, she already had thousands saved and ongoing support from multiple sources. I didn’t react outwardly—I told myself it was her money, and she had every right to it. But internally, I knew that if I had been aware of her financial situation, I wouldn’t have given as much as I did. And I recognize that feeling as selfish, even if it still feels valid.

When she started working and I wasn’t, things shifted. I was still trying to pay for school with inconsistent help from my biological father. She focused on saving for herself, which is fair—but when it came to me, her generosity was minimal. On my birthday, for example, she might give me 400 to shop, but she would control it—holding onto the money, monitoring what I chose to buy, almost policing it.

That hurt. It made me feel both angry and small. It felt like we had switched positions, but the imbalance remained. I was expected to give freely, but she wasn’t willing to meet me even halfway.

I know this part is shaped by my own perspective—I don’t fully know her reasoning. But she has admitted recently that she is selfish and doesn’t intend to change. And that’s been difficult to sit with, especially considering that by then she had accumulated so much—clothes, personal items, things I had helped her choose, things I had given her, and full access to my own belongings over the years.

And that’s separate from the money I gave her every month for two years.

⸻

The biggest argument we had went like this.

I honestly can’t even remember how we initially stopped speaking, but things escalated when she realized her toothbrush was missing. Before that, there was already tension—we had just gone back to sharing a room after having our own spaces for over a year, and she was clearly irritated about that. So the atmosphere was already strained.

When she noticed the toothbrush was gone—after maybe two weeks—she got very upset. And because I could already see how she was acting, I lied and said I didn’t take it. I lied because, at this point, I’ve come to expect that she won’t willingly give me anything. So yes, I do sometimes take things without telling her, especially when I think she won’t notice—which, most of the time, she doesn’t. But this time, she did.

Eventually, it came to a head and I admitted that I had taken it. I told her I didn’t understand why she was reacting so strongly over a toothbrush, especially since it came in a pack of three. She was already using one, I took another, and there was still one spare left. But it wasn’t about the number—she wanted both, and more than that, she knew I had taken it, which is what made her escalate.

And, like I’ve done before, I brought up everything I’ve done for her. I talked about how much I used to give when I had money, and even now, when I get anything—whether from my father or someone repaying me—I still use it to buy food for the house, or things everyone ends up sharing. I know this is something she hates—that I “throw it in her face”—and I know it’s not right, but in the moment it feels relevant.

At the same time, I can see how our roles have shifted. I’m not working right now, and she has a stable job. But even so, I still end up contributing in whatever way I can—financially, domestically, or otherwise. Meanwhile, she’s very reluctant to give anything. Even my mother has noticed this. If something small is needed, she’ll ask me, because I’m the more agreeable one. If it’s something large—thousands—then she might ask my sister, but even then, there’s hesitation.

I do try to be fair in how I look at this. When we were younger, my sister was the more diligent one. She cleaned regularly, kept things in order, and took on responsibilities without being asked. People saw that and appreciated it, but eventually, it became expected of her. I can understand why she stopped. She went from being diligent to, in some ways, withdrawing from those responsibilities, and I ended up picking up more of the slack.

Now, I cook, I clean, I try to keep things running, and I still contribute when I can, even without a job. She doesn’t. Instead, she invests her time and energy elsewhere—especially into this new friendship she has. And from what I’ve overheard, she talks about me like I’m lazy, annoying, and difficult to live with. She says she’s treated unfairly and that nobody listens to her.

I’ve been trying to understand her perspective—why she feels so strongly that she’s in the right and we’re all wrong.

Earlier today, we had another argument. We had actually not been speaking for a few days, but I overheard her on the phone, mentioning me repeatedly, and I confronted her. I asked her directly what the issue was. She said she wasn’t speaking to me, which confused me because I thought I was the one who had stopped speaking to her—over something petty she did with the fan.

We share a room, and there’s one fan that she bought. Since she’s at work most of the day, I use it. Sometimes I adjust it or unplug it, which she doesn’t like. So she removed the knob entirely so I couldn’t use it. That upset me, and I pulled back from speaking to her.

But apparently, she had already decided not to speak to me before that. When I asked why, she wouldn’t explain. She just said she was tired of repeating herself about respecting her things. I genuinely don’t know what she was referring to. Aside from the fan, I haven’t touched anything of hers since the toothbrush incident. At least, not that I can recall. And that’s the part that unsettles me—I started questioning myself, wondering if I had done something and forgotten.

I kept asking her to just tell me what it was so we could resolve it, but she refused. I got frustrated, raised my voice, and eventually said things I knew would hurt her.

At some point, I told her she was the common denominator—that everyone seems to have issues with her, and she never considers that she might be the problem. I said it intentionally to hurt her. But now I’m sitting here wondering if I’m the problem instead.

Because when I try to step into her perspective, I can see at least part of it: I don’t always respect her boundaries. I’ve taken her things without asking. I’ve minimized her feelings about it. And I bring up past generosity in arguments, which isn’t fair.

But at the same time, I can’t ignore the contradiction. Even when we’re not speaking, she continues to use my things—my clothes, my bag, items I’ve bought or never even used myself. And I don’t say anything. It doesn’t even occur to me to stop her.

So it feels one-sided. It feels like she expects strict respect for her boundaries while freely crossing mine.

And now I’m at a point where I don’t know what to do with that. I’m tired of being the one to bridge the gap. I’ve done it before—after past arguments, I was the one to initiate peace. If I hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t have spoken again.

But I don’t want to keep doing that alone.

We’re only a year apart, yet it feels like we operate on completely different understandings of responsibility, fairness, and maturity. And I don’t know if I’m justified in feeling that way—or if I’ve been wrong all along.