That one landed.
“I didn’t know they mattered that much,” he said quietly.
“They mattered because Dad planted them. And you didn’t care because you don’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t directly benefit you. That’s not me being mean, Travis. That’s just the truth. And I’m done pretending it’s not.”
We sat in silence for about a minute.
The waitress came by and asked if he wanted to order anything.
He shook his head.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry about the airport.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not enough, and we both know it.”
I paid for my coffee, told him Patrick would be in touch about next steps, and left.
I didn’t look back.
Not because I was angry.
I just didn’t need to.
The house sold in April.
It went on the market at $265,000 and sold in 3 weeks for $271,000.
After closing costs, lawyer fees, and the back taxes Travis never paid, my share came to just over $122,000.
I put it in a high-yield savings account and didn’t touch it.
Travis and Britney moved into a rental apartment on the west side.
I heard through my cousin that Britney was not thrilled about the downgrade.
There was apparently a fight about closet space that lasted 3 days.
I can’t say I lost sleep over it.
Something interesting happened with my mom, though.
About a week after the house sold, she called me.
Not to guilt-trip me.
Not to tell me I’d broken up the family.
Not to say, “You know Travis.”
She called to say she was sorry.
Not just about the house.
About years of it.
About the science fair ribbon.
About the graduation dinner.
About the 28 years of treating Travis like the sun and me like a flashlight someone keeps in a drawer for emergencies.
“I don’t know when it started,” she said, her voice cracking. “I think maybe because Travis always needed more, I just gave him more. And you were always so steady, so capable that I forgot you needed things, too. That wasn’t fair. That was never fair.”
I won’t pretend that conversation fixed everything.
It didn’t.
You don’t undo three decades of favoritism with one phone call.
But it was a start, and it was real.
And for the first time in my life, my mom saw me clearly without me having to wave a legal filing in front of her face to get her attention.
We talk every Sunday now.
It’s getting better.
Slowly.
Travis and I don’t talk.
He texted me once after the sale closed.
Said, “I hope you’re happy.”
I didn’t respond, not because I’m trying to be cold, but because the answer is yes, and I don’t think he’s ready to hear that.
As for me, I’m writing this from the balcony of a two-bedroom apartment on the east side of Columbus, the one I upgraded to with some of the house money.
Claire’s inside making dinner.
My promotion is going great.
Connor and I still grab beers every Friday.
I’ve got Dad’s fishing lures on a shelf in my office and his old watch on my wrist.
I’m saving for a down payment on a place of my own.
A real place.
Mine.
8 months ago, I sat on a bench in an airport and laughed because my brother forgot I existed.
I thought something was broken inside me.
Turns out something was finally clicking into place.
I wasn’t laughing because it was funny.
I was laughing because I was…
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Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.