I was faced with a decision. While delivering laundry into the appropriate bedrooms, I stumbled upon my thirteen-year-old sister's diary, a modern-day Pandora's Box, suffused with temptation. What was I to do? I had always been jealous of my little sister. Her charming smile, endearing personality and many talents threatened my place as leading lady. I competed with her tacitly and grew to resent her natural abilities. I felt it necessary to shatter her shadow with achievements of my own. As a result, we seldom spoke. I sought opportunities to criticize her and relished surpassing her achievements. Her diary lay at my feet, and I didn't think of the result of opening it. I considered not her privacy, the morality of my actions, nor her consequential pain. I merely savored the possibility of digging up enough dirt to soil my competitor's spotless record. I reasoned my iniquity as sisterly duty. It was my responsibility to keep a check on her activities. It would be wrong of me not to.

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