When You’re Always the Second Choice

The Price of Favoritism

My parents want me to die so my brother can go to college. That pretty much summed up my childhood. Jackson was the miracle child they’d tried for 10 years to have. I was the accident that happened after they already had him.

When I was eight, my brother Jackson won a spelling bee, and my parents threw him a party with 50 guests and a three-tier cake. When I won the science fair the next month, they forgot to pick me up from school, and I had to walk home carrying my trophy in the rain.

He got a nursery with handpainted murals and a crib that cost more than a car. I got a dresser drawer and hand-me-down blankets. Mom kept every report card, every crayon drawing, and every baby tooth of his in labeled boxes. My stuff went straight in the trash.

By the time I was 10, I’d learned to stop expecting anything. I started taking care of myself completely. I packed my own lunches, did my own laundry, and walked to school alone. Jackson got driven in Mom’s car, even though we went to the same place.

I’d watched them pull away while I started my 40-minute walk. My backpack was heavy with books I’d bought myself from babysitting money. Teachers thought I was so independent. Really, I just had no choice.

The worst part was how they’d gaslight me about it. “We love you both equally,” Mom would say while sitting at another one of Jackson’s hockey games. “I hadn’t seen her at any of my track meets all season,” I hadn’t seen her at any of my track meets all season.

“You’re imagining things,” Dad would insist while showing co-workers Jackson’s photos, but none of mine. They had a whole shrine to Jackson in the living room: trophies, certificates, photos from every age. I got one school picture on the fridge that hadn’t been updated since second grade.

When I was 16, I got into the advanced science program at school. It was a full scholarship to summer camp at MIT. This was the kind of opportunity kids dream about. I ran home with the letter. Finally, this was something so big they’d have to care.

Mom glanced at it and said: “That’s nice, but Jackson has a baseball game that week, so we can’t drive you.”

The camp was 3 hours away. She wouldn’t miss one of his games to give me the chance of a lifetime. So, I got a job and saved every penny for college. I knew by then that they’d never pay for mine.

Jackson already had a college fund that Mom talked about constantly. “We’ve saved $40,000 for his education,” she’d brag to relatives.

When those same relatives asked about my college plans, she’d say I’d probably get scholarships since I was the bookish one. Like being smart was a consolation prize for being unloved.

Then when I was 17, I started getting sick. I had bruises everywhere, and exhaustion so bad I could barely stand. I ignored it for months because complaining got me nowhere in that house.

But when I fainted at work and woke up in the hospital, the tests showed acute leukemia, advanced enough that the doctors were surprised I’d been walking around at all. For the first time in my life, my parents looked at me like I mattered.

Mom cried actual tears, held my hand during chemo, and even slept in the hospital chair. Dad took time off work, something he’d never done for my school events, but did now that I was dying. They brought me flowers and balloons and teddy bears, all the things I’d wanted as a kid, but never got.

For three beautiful months, I had parents who loved me. The chemo worked. My counts improved. Doctors said I had a fighting chance if we kept going. I started to believe maybe this illness had changed things.

Maybe almost losing me had shown them I was worth loving. Mom even said she was proud of how strong I was. I cried hearing words I’d waited 17 years for.

Then Jackson got into Columbia. Not with scholarships or financial aid. His grades weren’t that good. But it was his dream school, and Mom said they’d make it work.

The next day, she sat on my hospital bed with that fake concerned face I knew too well.

“Sweetie, we need to talk about your treatment costs.”

She started, “the insurance only covers so much and with Jackson’s tuition.”

I stared at her while she explained that they’d have to stop paying for my chemo after this round. She explained that Jackson’s education was an investment in the future while my treatment was just prolonging the inevitable.

She said that I’d had a good life, had I, and shouldn’t be selfish about Jackson’s opportunities. She actually used the word selfish about me wanting to not die of cancer so her favorite child could go to Columbia.

“We’ll make you comfortable,” she promised like that was generous. “But Columbia only accepts students once.” “Your cancer will probably come back anyway.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, like she’d already decided I was dead. Jackson needed that money for his dorm room and meal plan and spring break trips. I needed it to live, but that had never been the priority.

I looked at her sitting there, the mother who’d held my hand during chemo just long enough to feel like she’d done her duty. Now that Jackson needed something, I was expendable again, worse than forgotten, actively sacrificed.

She was literally choosing his college experience over my life, and she expected me to understand. But I wasn’t going down without a fight.