My name is Emily Carter, and until my sister’s wedding, I thought I understood exactly where I stood in my family.
I was thirty-two years old, a successful real estate investor living in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Chicago skyline. Every square foot of that home represented years of sacrifice. While other people spent weekends at parties, I spent mine studying markets. While friends traveled the world, I attended investment seminars and renovated rundown properties.
None of it had been handed to me.
I built everything myself.
Yet in my
