I should have known better.
My family has always had layers. I’m the middle child, not quite the golden one, not quite the forgotten one.
My older sister, Melissa, is the golden child to the textbook definition. She’s 36, has three kids, a husband who sells insurance, and an Instagram page that looks like a Hallmark movie threw up on it.
My younger brother, Tyler, is 27 and still somehow treated like a fragile egg despite being a grown man who freelances, meaning he lives in my parents’ basement and occasionally edits podcasts for his friends.
Me, I moved out years ago, got my own place, work in IT, and take care of my kid. I don’t make a fortune, but I manage. And unlike my siblings, I don’t constantly borrow money or need rescuing.
That’s precisely why, I think, my parents have always felt more comfortable cutting corners with me. I never needed much, so they assumed I didn’t deserve much either.
