Chapter 2: The Brother Who Always Won
Growing up, I learned one rule before I learned anything else.
If Trevor needed something, the whole family moved.
If I needed something, I learned how to handle it myself.
Trevor was four years older than me, and my parents treated him like he was the only person in the house with a future.
When he joined the high school football team, my mother bought him expensive equipment.
When he wanted a truck after graduation, my father spent months searching for the perfect one.
When I graduated high school with the highest grades in my class, I thought that would finally be my moment.
I was wrong.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my acceptance letter from college.
“I got in,” I said.
My mother looked up from her phone.
“That’s wonderful, Paige.””
I waited.
I thought she would hug me.
I thought my father would smile.
Instead, my dad cleared his throat.
“College is expensive.””
“I know,” I replied.
“I applied for scholarships. I can work too.””
My mother exchanged a look with him.
That look told me everything.
“We just don’t think we can help financially,” she said.
I nodded slowly.
“Okay.””
A week later, Trevor came home with a brand-new pickup truck.
I stood in the driveway staring at it.
The paint was shining under the afternoon sun.
My father walked beside me proudly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?””
I looked at him.
“Yeah.””
“Trevor deserves something reliable.””
I almost laughed.
Something inside me broke that day.
But I didn’t argue.
I didn’t cry.
I simply walked upstairs and started looking for a job.
By the time I started college, I was working twenty-five hours a week.
I studied accounting during the day and worked late shifts at a restaurant at night.
I learned how to survive on cheap meals and four hours of sleep.
While other students went home for weekends, I stayed in my tiny apartment reviewing financial reports.
I paid every bill myself.
Tuition.
Rent.
Books.
Food.
Everything.
And every semester, I waited for someone in my family to ask how I was doing.
They never did.
Years later, after graduation, I got my first accounting job.
A good one.
The kind of job my younger self dreamed about while counting tips after midnight.
I called Riley, my best friend.
She answered immediately.
“Please tell me you’re calling with good news.””
I laughed.
“I got the job.””
She screamed so loudly I had to move the phone away.
“I knew it!””
“You knew?””
“Paige, you literally survived college on caffeine and determination. Of course you got it.””
I smiled.
She was the first person I told.
Not my parents.
Not Trevor.
Riley.
Because somewhere along the way, my best friend became more like family than my actual family.
A few years passed.
My salary increased.
I saved money.
And eventually, I bought a house.
My own house.
A cozy two-bedroom home on Maple Ridge Drive.
The strangest part was that my parents drove down that street almost every week.
They had no idea their daughter owned a house there.
They passed my front yard without knowing.
They never asked where I lived.
They never asked what I had built.
The day I got the keys, Riley came over with a camera.
She watched me unlock the front door.
“You realize what this means, right?””
I smiled.
“What?””
“You did this.””
I looked around the empty living room.
The walls were bare.
The rooms echoed.
But it was mine.
Every corner represented something I had earned.
Riley lifted her phone.
“Hold the key.””
I laughed.
“Why?””
“Because one day you’re going to forget how hard this was.””
She took the picture.
Me standing beside the SOLD sign.
Holding my house key.
Standing alone.
But proud.
I posted it online with a simple caption:
“First-time homeowner. No help. Just six years of calculators.””
I didn’t tag my family.
I didn’t mention them.
I didn’t expect anything from them.
But the next afternoon, something happened.
My phone started ringing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first, I ignored it.
Then I looked at the screen.
My mother.
My father.
Trevor.
Then my mother again.
Within twenty minutes, I had dozens of missed calls.
By the time the hour ended, my phone showed something impossible.
Forty-seven missed calls.
I stared at the number.
Then a voicemail notification appeared.
It was from my father.
My hands went cold when I pressed play.
“Paige,” he said, his voice shaking.
“You need to call us back immediately.””
A pause.
May you like
Then he whispered something I never expected to hear.
“Who is the person in the photo standing behind your house?””
