Chapter 1 - The Background Page
The first time I realized my parents could smile while they were hurting me, I was nine years old. My dad, Martin, had come home from work with a tiny helmet in his hand—bright blue with a glossy finish—and walked right past me like I was a lamp in the hallway. My younger brother, Jake, was in the living room playing with action figures. Dad knelt like Jake was royalty and set the helmet on his head with both hands, careful and reverent. "There," Dad said, beaming. "That’s my future star."
Jake turned his head left and right, admiring his reflection in the dark TV screen. I stood in the doorway holding a certificate I’d gotten at school for reading the most books that semester. It was printed on thick paper with gold lettering. I had imagined Dad lifting me off the ground, even just once, the way he lifted Jake when he scored a touchdown at recess. Instead, Dad glanced up, eyes flicking over the certificate. "Good job," he said, like he was complimenting the weather. Then he ruffled Jake’s hair and went back to talking about football.
I learned the rules early. Jake was celebration. I was background. Jake was the family story. I was the quiet page nobody reread. From the outside, our life looked immaculate. We lived in a two-story house in a neighborhood where lawns were trimmed like carpet. My mother, Linda, didn’t work outside the home, but she worked at control the way some people work at love—meticulous, relentless, always watching. Jake and I went to private school, wore nice clothes, and took family photos in matching outfits in front of seasonal wreaths. But what we didn’t have, at least not evenly, was affection. I didn’t have it.
