My parents gave my apartment to my brother at his engagement party in a leafy suburb just outside Chicago, without even telling me. I thought my parents genuinely cared about me—until they publicly gifted my apartment to my twin brother, smiling for photos while handing over the deed to the place I’d saved from foreclosure with $30,000 of my own money. I was thirty-two years old when I watched my father hand my brother the deed to my apartment.
Not just any apartment.
My apartment. The one I’d spent five years renovating with my own hands and my own money.
The one I’d saved from the bank at the last minute with a transfer that emptied my savings account. The one my parents had promised—looking me straight in the eye—would someday be mine.
And there it was, a stack of papers in a cream-colored envelope, being gifted to my twin brother Connor at his engagement party like it had never been mine at all.
Like I had never existed at all. The living room of Claire’s parents’ house, a big two-story place in a quiet Illinois cul-de-sac with manicured lawns and American flags fluttering on front porches, erupted in applause. People whistled, laughed, clapped my brother on the back.
Someone shouted, “Now that’s how you start a marriage!”
Champagne glasses clinked, flashes from phone cameras went off, and for a moment all I could hear was the roar of blood in my ears.
I stood frozen near the back of the room, my back pressed against a wall of family photos that weren’t mine, a half-empty champagne flute trembling in my hand. In that exact moment, as my dad pulled Connor into a proud hug, I realized something that knocked the air out of my lungs.
In my family’s eyes, I had always been—and would always be—an afterthought. Convenient, useful, expendable.
My name is Avery, and what I’m about to tell you isn’t just a story about an apartment.
It’s about growing up as the backup child, the understudy to the golden boy, and what happens when the person you keep pushing aside finally decides they’re done playing nice. From our earliest memories, Connor and I might have shared the same birthday, the same DNA, and the same childhood home on the north side of Chicago, but we lived in completely different worlds when it came to our parents’ affection. I still remember our tenth birthday like a movie I’ve watched too many times.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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