My mother placed her hand on the will and said, You won’t get a penny.’ I smiled. Okay, then don’t expect a penny from me either.’ I put down my plate and stood up. A few weeks later, calls started coming from my brother, my mother, even numbers I didn’t recognize, as if I were their backup plan. I answered once and said, ‘Do you all remember that dinner?’

My name is Tasha, and at 32 years old, I have mastered the art of being invisible in my own family.

The scent of expensive lilies and roast duck hung heavy in the air of my parents’ estate in Atlanta. It was two hours after we buried my father, Otis. While most families would be sharing memories or comforting one another, my family was discussing assets.

My mother, Bernice, sat at the head of the table like a queen on her throne. She wore a custom black designer suit that cost more than my first car. Beside her sat my older brother, Darius—the golden child—looking bored in his silk morning suit as he checked notifications on his newest phone.

And then there was his wife, Amber.

She sat to his right, swirling a glass of vintage red wine, looking at me with that familiar sneer she reserved for anyone she deemed beneath her.

I sat at the far end of the table wearing a simple gray blazer and slacks. To them, I was the failure. The one who did not marry rich. The one with the vague data entry job.

Bernice cleared her throat, tapping her crystal glass with a silver spoon.

“We need to settle matters immediately,” she announced, her voice lacking any trace of grief. “Your father’s will is quite clear, but as the executor, I have the final say on the discretionary distribution.”

Continue reading…