On New Year’s Eve, My Parents Shut Down My Proposal, Saying “You Don’t Deserve To Carry The Family…”
On New Year’s Eve, my parents shut down my proposal, saying, “You don’t deserve to carry the family name and your brother should marry first. So, I cut them off and moved on until years later.” A hospital confession revealed why I was only kept alive.
Hey, Reddit.
Growing up, my parents made it pretty clear I was the backup kid. I didn’t fight it. I just built my own life and walked away. I thought that would be the end of it.
Turns out they had other plans.
Before I get into all that, I need to start at the beginning.
I’m Joey. I’m 23. I work full-time, keep my head down, pay my bills, and don’t ask my parents for anything. I have an identical twin brother named Ross. Identical on paper only. Our faces matched. Our builds didn’t.
Growing up, you wouldn’t guess we came from the same house if you watched how we were treated.
Ross is taller than me, broader, athletic, the kind of guy adults naturally pat on the back. Teachers loved him. Coaches loved him. My parents, Walter and Lizzy, built their whole identity around him early on. He wasn’t just their son. He was their investment.
I was the extra part that came with the package.
I’m not quiet or timid. Never was. I noticed things early and I didn’t pretend not to. I use humor when things get uncomfortable, and my parents hated that. They prefer silence and compliance. They called my attitude difficult.
Ross didn’t have an attitude.
Ross had potential.
We shared a room growing up, which is where the difference became impossible to ignore. Same room, two different lives. Ross’s side had the window, better light, better air. He had a new desk, clean drawers that didn’t stick, shelves that weren’t bowing in the middle. When a poster peeled or got ripped, it got replaced. When a gadget came out, it somehow ended up on his side of the room.
My side was hand-me-downs. A dresser with one drawer that never closed right. Old paint with scratches that never got touched up. If something broke, it stayed broken.
Nobody ever said that was the rule.
It just was.
You could stand in the doorway and see it clear as day. Physical proof of who mattered more.
Lizzy made it worse without saying a word. She touched Ross like she was proud to be seen with him. Hand on the shoulder. Straightening his collar before school. Small gestures that said, “This one is mine.”
With me, touch only came with correction.
Pulling me back from a conversation. Pressing two fingers into my arm to shut me up. A hand on my chest to stop me from stepping forward.
I don’t remember her hugging me.
I remember her adjusting me.
Walter wasn’t subtle either. Everything Ross did was about the future. Sports were about scholarships. Friends were about connections. If Ross messed up, it was growing pains. If I did the same thing, it was proof I wasn’t built right.
I didn’t cry about it. I didn’t beg.
I made comments.
Short ones. Dry ones.
Stuff like, “Guess my side of the room didn’t qualify for the upgrade.”
That usually got me a look from Lizzy and a lecture about being dramatic.
Ross would smirk sometimes, not in a cruel way. He was a kid enjoying good treatment. He didn’t question it because why would he?
The birthday dinners were the worst because they pretended to be neutral ground. Joint celebration, same candles, same table, same speeches.
One year, we’re sitting there with relatives from both sides and the cake comes out. Big white frosting, blue trim. In the center, written clean and bold, is Ross’ name. Just Ross. No space left, no correction, no hesitation.
The room goes quiet for a half second, long enough for everyone to notice.
I look at the cake, then at my parents, then back at the cake.
I say, “Guess I’m sharing his wish this year… just enough to acknowledge reality.”
Lizzy snaps back immediately, tells me to stop being dramatic.
Says, “It’s just a cake.”
A few relatives laugh in that uncomfortable way people do when they don’t want to pick a side. Ross looks down at his plate.
Nobody fixes it.
We eat the cake anyway.
That was childhood for me.
Nothing explosive.
Just a thousand little reminders of where I ranked.
Once, not long after that, I caught Lizzy looking at me in a way that didn’t match her usual irritation. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t disappointment. It was something tighter. Fear maybe. Or guilt.
It lasted maybe a second before she noticed me looking back.
Then her face hardened and she told me to stop hovering and do something useful.
I didn’t know what to do with that look at the time, but I remembered it.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
