“I did tell you. Multiple times. You didn’t listen.”
“You said you were doing research. You never said you started a company.”
“I told you I left Stanford for a startup. You said it was impractical.”
Silence.
Derek cleared his throat. “That speech was incredible, Sarah. I had no idea you were doing all this.”
“You never asked,” I said, though not unkindly.
“That’s not fair,” my father protested. “We always asked about your work.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You asked if I had a real job yet. You asked when I was going to get serious about my career. You compared me to Derek constantly. But you never once asked what my research was actually about. You never asked what I was building. You never cared.”
“We cared,” my mother insisted, crying. “We were just worried.”
“You were embarrassed,” I interrupted. “You were embarrassed that I spent eight years on a PhD instead of getting a job. You were embarrassed that I didn’t have a conventional career path. You were embarrassed to tell people about me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Mom, you didn’t come to my PhD graduation. You said it was a waste of time. You said Derek’s MBA mattered more.”
She flinched like I had slapped her.
“And now,” I continued, “now that you know I’m successful by your standards, now that I have money and recognition and status, now I matter.”
“You always mattered,” my father said weakly.
“Then why wasn’t I worth a single day? Derek’s graduation was worth a week of your time. Mine wasn’t worth a Saturday.”
No one spoke.
Derek looked at our parents. “She’s right. You know she’s right.”
My mother started to speak, but he shook his head.
“No, Mom. I’ve watched you treat Sarah differently my whole life. I knew it was happening. I just… I didn’t say anything. I should have.”
He turned to me. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I should have stood up for you.”
That unexpected apology cracked something open in my chest.
“It’s not your fault,” I said quietly.
“It kind of is. I benefited from it. I let it happen.”