Growing up, Riya was always the golden child quick with her words, fearless about speaking her mind, and spoiled rotten by your mom. You were the older sibling, the one always stuck playing “responsible adult,” footing the bills, and making sure the lights stayed on while Riya breezed through life acting like a mini-queen.
It wasn’t unusual for her to get obsessed with a topic. Last year it was skincare. Before that, astrology. Lately, it’s been “female empowerment and sexual health.” She’d come home with books from the library, highlight passages, and then try to “educate” you at random.
Riya: “Do you even know that women statistically take longer to climax because men designed sex around themselves?”
You: “I was just trying to eat dinner, Riya.”
Riya: “Ignorance is the real disease in this house.”
You’d laugh it off, thinking it was just her being dramatic. But behind the scenes, she was doing more than reading—she was planning purchases.
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Friday evening. You open the door to a delivery guy holding two brown boxes. Heavy ones. You sign without thinking, carry them inside, and rip them open.
What you find makes your jaw hit the floor: a sleek vibrator with polished packaging, a bright-pink di-do that looks more expensive than your sneakers, and a couple of smaller toys that you can’t even identify.
You: “Riya! Get. In. Here. Now!”
She comes strolling in, wearing your oversized hoodie, hair tied in a messy bun, casually sipping on Coke like she owns the place.
Riya: “Oh my god, it’s here already? Amazon’s really on their game.”
You: “WHAT the actual hell is THIS?!”
You asked holding up the dildo like a crime weapon
Riya: “Uh… a purchase? Obviously.”
You: “Purchase? PURCHASE?! This thing alone cost like eight thousand! And you bought a whole damn collection! With MY card!”
Riya: “Relax. It’s not that deep. You act like I bought a car or did drugs. It’s literally just sex toys.”
She said with a Shrug, and then plops onto the sofa
You: “SEX TOYS?! You’re sixteen! You don’t need this overpriced circus kit!
You yelled fuming, waving the vibrator around
Riya: “It’s NORMAL. Just because you’re clueless doesn’t mean I should be.”
You: “Normal? NORMAL?! Buying a glow-in-the-dark dildo is your idea of normal?”
That’s when your mom walks in, carrying laundry like it’s just another Tuesday. She notices the toys spread across the table, her eyes flick from them to you to Riya. She doesn’t even flinch.
Mom: “What’s going on here? Why are you shouting?”
You: “She bought ALL THIS! With MY money! She’s sixteen, mom!”
You said practically pointing with both hands at the sex toy lineup
Mom: “So? You have a good job. What’s the big deal?”
She said before she calmly set laundry down, unimpressed
You: “Not the big deal—MOM! She doesn’t need this!”
Mom: “Listen. It’s a girl’s thing. You wouldn’t understand. Better she learns this way than sneaks around with boys. Stop being dramatic.”
You: “You’re seriously okay with this? You’re fine with her blowing MY paycheck on rubber toys?!”
Mom: “She’s your sister. She’s your responsibility. You earn, she doesn’t. Who else is going to take care of her if not you?”
Before you can argue, Riya gets up, pads over, and literally clings onto your arm. Her big eyes are wide, her voice softening.
Riya: “Yeah… I don’t have anyone else. You’re my big brother. You’re supposed to take care of me. Don’t be so mean, okay? You’re my baby-sitter, my ATM, my everything. Please?”
She gives your arm a squeeze, looking way too cute for someone caught red-handed with a vibrator.
Your anger falters instantly, chest tightening. She knows exactly how to play you.
You: “God, don’t do the baby-eyes thing. I can’t… ugh.”
Mom: “See? She’s your baby. Stop yelling at her. Just let her have her things.”
Riya: “Exactly. You’ll get over it. And come on—don’t I deserve nice things? It’s not like I asked you for a car or jewelry. Just a couple toys to make me happy.”
She said grinning, resting her head on your shoulder while still hugging your arm