When I was one and a half, my brother was born and he soon developed some life threatening illness. My stint as king of the household ended suddenly and permanently, and my therapist thinks that left lasting scars. I think it’s just a convenient excuse.
In any case, this trend kept on for the rest of my life, as my brother always got more attention, and so did my sister (as the only girl, she was my father’s favorite). They even bought my brother a building in NYC, which is now worth a fortune, sitting in the heart of what is now a very trendy neighborhood, but back then, was a bunch of warehouses. He’s an artist. It was his studio.
My sister ended up traveling the world, reporting, making documentaries and giving my parents many excuses to arrange parties for her whenever she deigns to come home.
I, of course, am somehow the failure of the family. I never did anything great enough. I’m just an ordinary schmoe, with a wife, two kids, a retirement plan, and a 100 year old house in the city. I think I was supposed to save the planet, but I didn’t, so I’m not worth much in my parent’s eyes.
I once asked them why they paid so much more attention to my siblings. My mother said, “We didn’t think you needed it. You could always take care of yourself.”
Well, yeah. We do what we have to. But it costs. Now it seems like there is never enough love to make me feel safe. Never will be.
On the bright side, I no longer feel like I need to save the world in order to be considered a halfway decent human being.