My mom forgot a gift for my son at Christmas. Said he doesn’t need one after how he looked at the golden grandchild. Meanwhile, my sister’s kid got a stack of presents and a new tablet.
I didn’t say a word. I picked up every bag I bought and we left. At 10:06 p.m., Dad texted, “Make sure the payment clears tomorrow.”
I didn’t make a scene.
I just
My name is Alex. I’m 41 years old. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about being the dependable child, it’s this.
Dependable means disposable. For the past 10 years, I’ve been the safety net my family forgot to acknowledge. I’m a financial consultant.
I work long hours. I budget carefully, and I’ve built a stable life for myself and my son, Nathan. He’s 8 years old.
Bright kid. Loves science kits and building things with his hands. He’s got my late wife’s smile, the one that made everything feel lighter.
My parents live 3 hours away in the house I helped them keep. Not that they ever mentioned that part. My sister Monica lives 20 minutes from them with her husband, Greg, and their son Tyler, who just turned 10.
Tyler is the center of the universe in our family. The golden grandchild. The one who gets the attention, the praise, the Instagram posts with heart emojis and captions about how blessed my parents are.
I don’t begrudge Tyler. He’s just a kid. But the pattern has been there since Monica and I were children ourselves.
She was always the chosen one, the one who could do no wrong. I was the backup plan. The quiet one.
The one who paid attention in school, got decent grades, and never caused trouble, which meant I was easy to overlook. When I was 23, I bought my first car with money I saved from two jobs. Monica crashed hers that same year.
My parents asked if I could co-sign a loan for her replacement. That was the first time. Over the years, there were more requests.
Could I help with Mom’s medical bills? Could I cover Dad’s credit card payment just this once? Could I float them some cash until their pension check cleared?
Every single time, the answer was yes. By the time I turned 30, I realized I wasn’t just helping occasionally. I was covering their mortgage every month, paying their car insurance, clearing Monica’s credit card debt every quarter.
They never asked directly anymore. They just expected the transfers to keep happening. And I let it happen because I thought that’s what family did.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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