But in our house, talent had curdled into monarchy.
Logan’s tournaments dictated vacations. Logan’s showcases dictated family budgets. Logan’s moods determined whether dinner felt tense or celebratory. Logan’s coaches got Christmas gifts from my mother that cost more than anything she ever bought me. My father, who ran a small commercial printing company with more debt than he admitted out loud, spoke about my brother’s left-handed batting stance the way other men spoke about investments.
Everything in our family bent toward him.
Everything except me, finally.
“I’m not canceling my appointment,” I said.
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