Chapter 2 - Breathing Free Air
When Jake was born, something in my parents tilted hard and never tilted back. Mom’s entire face softened when she looked at him. Dad started talking about “legacy” and “our boy.” By the time Jake was six and started youth football, my parents acted like the rest of life was just an annoying interruption between his games. They paid for private coaches, special camps, and cleats that cost more than my winter coat. Dad called him our future NFL star to anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, I became small out of habit. I babysat to buy my own school supplies because asking my parents for anything felt like walking onto thin ice. I learned to speak only when needed, clean my own messes, solve my own problems, and swallow my own feelings.
I didn’t hate Jake. He was a good kid—spoiled, yes, but not cruel. He didn’t ask to be worshipped; he just learned to accept it like oxygen. The day I left for college, my mom hugged me like she was checking something off a list. "Call us," she said. "Don’t do anything stupid." My dad carried my suitcase to the trunk, then clapped my shoulder once, brisk. "Make us proud," he said. They never said, We’ll miss you.
College was the first time I breathed like the air belonged to me. I studied interior design at a school out of state. I worked in the campus library, then at a coffee shop, then as a design assistant for a local firm. I stayed up late making mood boards and sketching spaces that felt warm and balanced, the way I’d always wished our house felt. In college, people asked how I was doing and meant it. Professors complimented my work and remembered my name. Friends invited me places without making me feel like I was borrowing their attention. My parents called occasionally, but the calls were almost always about Jake.
