‘We Didn’t Order For You,’ Dad Said, Sliding Me Bread While My Brother Enjoyed His Steak. His Wife Said, “It’s Nice You Could Make It.” When The Bill Came, Dad Said: “Let’s Split It Fairly.”

My older brother Connor Il is 35 and speaks fluent bonus investment banking. Watch glinting. A house with a lawn that looks airbrushed.

Before Mom died two years ago, she ran interference, insisting the two of us were equal in her eyes. After she was gone, the balance evaporated. Dad’s gaze followed the shine.

Connor closed a sevenf figureure deal, became the family weather. I became the forecast he never checked. And then there’s Victoria, Connor’s wife, with the immaculate dress and immaculate disdain.

Old money finishing school, new money, taste for spectacle. At their wedding, she tacked my place card to table 17 near a man named Todd who lectured me about crypto like he’d invented math. We orbit the same family photos but not the same room.

Morton’s on Friday was an arena. I parked three blocks away because the valet sign said $30 and my petty refused. The hostess glanced at my rained hair like I’d tracked in a puddle.

Reservation? She asked. Email under Connor.

Her smile flipped like a switch. The good tables live where the stakes breathe different air. Write this way.

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