My father was a professor at a prestigious university, and my mother held a doctorate in literature.
But only my older sister inherited their brilliant genes.
As for me, all I could do was chant “Makka Pakka,” the bitter little gourd their family tree had produced.
When my parents divorced, my sister chose Dad.
“I don’t want a retarded little sister,” she said.
I turned to Mom. “Be happy, Mommy. Makka Pakka!”
Luckily, Mom took my advice: she happily quit her job and started a company.
Years later, Dad nearly drove my genius sister out of her mind.
And I, still Makka-Pakka-ing my way through life, became the daughter of a millionaire.