If you ever want proof that the ancient Greek gods are still alive and well, don’t bother with temples. Just come meet my family.

I grew up the child of Greek immigrant parents who were determined to “become English.” Unfortunately, my mother’s attempts at assimilation were the kind you could only describe as heroic failures. She forgot school trips, sent us to school in the wrong attire, and packed lunches so catastrophically un-English that other children stared as though we’d brought offerings for Zeus.

But if my mother’s Englishification campaign was tragic, our looks were pure comedy. Let’s just say the Greek gods—those vengeful little pranksters—were not generous in the beauty department.

The Sisters: A Catalogue of Divine Cruelty

• Eldest Sister: The gods gave her a nose so commanding that it deserved its own postal code. Pair that with the kind of adolescent acne that could be seen from space, and you have a face only Dionysus could love—after several goblets of wine.

• Middle Sister: Ah, the pièce de résistance of godly cruelty. Imagine a round face, perfectly spherical, like someone tried to mold a bowling ball out of feta. She was often mistaken for suffering from some rare medical condition, which sent my mother into panicked consultations about “attracting a Greek suitor.” The solution? Corsets, crash diets, and prayers to Saint Slimfast. Nothing worked.

Meanwhile, puberty arrived, and with it, the gods’ laughter echoed louder. Noses grew larger, hips wider, and the mirror became the cruelest mythological creature of all.

The Exile to Cyprus

On my middle sister’s 15th birthday, my parents decided she required sun therapy. Yes, apparently the Mediterranean sun was going to fix both her complexion and her chances of marriage. Off she went with my mother for a seven-week holiday in Cyprus, while my elder sister, my father, and I stayed behind, stewing in the unfairness and bribing ourselves with chips and Cadbury’s.

“Why does she get to go?” we demanded.
“She needs the sun,” my mother shrugged, as though the rays of Cyprus could melt double chins.

The Airport Revelation

Weeks passed, and finally, the day of their return arrived. Birmingham Airport buzzed with Cypriots hauling enough luggage to repopulate a small village. We waited. And then we saw her.

First, my mother appeared, dragging suitcases clearly stuffed with half the Greek grocery store. But behind her—behind her floated a vision.

A goddess.
A vision in sunglasses, bleached hair, a cinched waist, and the unmistakable strut of someone who knew she owned the arrivals hall. Young men abandoned their trolleys and sprinted for a closer look. Jaws dropped. Greek grandmothers clutched their crosses and Greek grandfathers dropped their komboloi beads.

And then—my brain froze.
Because this goddess wasn’t a stranger.
This goddess was my sister.

The fat, awkward, bowling-ball-faced sister had returned transformed into a Helen of Troy knock-off, a Miss Cyprus in training, sashaying through Birmingham like she was auditioning for a Bond film.

Even the Greek girls chewing gum in the corner looked like livestock compared to her, as if someone had dragged them straight from their grandfathers’ allotments. The contrast was biblical.

The Final Insult

My mother, naturally, basked in reflected glory. After years of defending her daughter’s marriage prospects, she suddenly acted like she had raised Aphrodite herself. “See? I told you. She just needed the sun,” she beamed, as if UV rays were plastic surgeons.

And there I stood, with my elder sister and father, watching men salivate over our once-mockable sibling. All I could think was: the Greek gods are the biggest trolls in history.

How My Ugly Greek Sister Returned From Cyprus as Aphrodite and Ruined My Life

From that moment on, my life was ruined. No longer could I call her “Miss Greek Nose” or “Fatty Feta.” Overnight, she became the hot Greek queen—the goddess, the one the whole community whispered about at church coffee mornings.

Our parents paraded her like a trophy. She acquired an attitude to match her designer clothes, while we, the unfavoured siblings, were left to deal with her hand-me-downs and reheated spanakopita. She dined in “special restaurants” where even the waiters worshipped her, while we weren’t seen in public until—my mother prayed—our own miraculous transformations would arrive.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

Instead, we remained the unblessed ones, the comic relief in the Greek tragedy that was our family dynamic. She was Aphrodite. We were the goats chewing gum by the allotments. ️

• Moral of the story: Beauty may be fleeting, but humiliation lasts forever—especially when the Greek gods are writing your script.

LOVE BY OPA OPA