My parents spent years celebrating my brother on the birthday we shared while barely remembering mine. I stopped expecting much from them long ago, but when they saw my new Mercedes, Dad went so far as to call the police — without realizing where we were standing.
Let me start with the birthday, because everything else grows out of it.
I share mine with my brother, Ryan. We were born eight years apart, on the same day, which sounds like a fun fact.
It was not a fun fact in our house. It was a scheduling problem, and I lost it every year.
Here’s the one that stuck.
It was a scheduling problem, and I lost it every year.
When I turned eight, Ryan turned sixteen, and my parents threw him a party with a rented patio, a taco truck, and about forty of his friends.
I sat on my bed with my door cracked open, listening to the bass shake the wall.
Around nine, Mom poked her head in and said, “Oh, honey, there’s leftover cake downstairs.”
Leftover. Of his cake.
Then there was the year I turned eighteen.
“Oh, honey, there’s leftover cake downstairs.”
They were in Cabo celebrating Ryan, and nobody remembered it was also the day I became a legal adult.
I ate cereal for dinner and called it a feast.
Do you see the pattern? I did.
You get good at not wanting things when wanting them hurts.
I moved out at nineteen with $340 and a duffel bag.
Do you see the pattern? I did.
I slept on a friend’s couch and took graveyard shifts at a call center, where I got yelled at about internet bills for eight hours straight.
In the gaps between calls, I taught myself to code from free courses.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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