My Father Declared In The Hearing, Saying, “At Last, Your Shop And Your Car Belong To Your Younger Brother.” My Mother Smiled And Nodded Along. I Remained Silent Until The Judge Looked UP AND SAID…

I was the other one. The one who cleaned up after everyone, who finished homework without being asked, who stayed quiet when voices rose. They called me responsible.

That word followed me like a shadow. Responsible meant useful, but never special. Responsible meant I didn’t need praise because I should already know my place.

Birthdays made it clearest. When Dylan turned 8, my parents threw a party in the backyard with a bounce house, pizza truck, and a giant cake shaped like a soccer ball. He tore open gifts until the wrapping paper covered the grass: new bike with gears, video game console, skates.

I stood at the edge of the crowd holding a paper plate, smiling because that’s what you do. My gift from them was a card with $20 inside and the words, “Keep up the good work.”

Dylan looked over, grinned, and said, “Thanks for coming, Alex.”

Everyone laughed like it was funny. I forced a smile and went inside to help my mother clean the kitchen before the party ended.

Another year. Summer vacation. We drove to the lake house for a week.

Dylan sat in the front passenger seat the whole trip, choosing every song, deciding when we stopped for snacks. I sat in the back with the cooler and bags, knees pressed against the seat in front. When we arrived, he picked the bedroom with the best view.

I took the foldout couch in the living room. No one asked. No one needed to.

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