After that night in the hallway, I needed something that was mine, something that didn’t depend on anyone else deciding I was worth their time.
Code didn’t care if I was the favorite.
Code didn’t care if I was average.
Code just worked or it didn’t.
And when it didn’t, it told you exactly why.
That kind of honesty was refreshing coming from a family that communicated entirely in subtext and strategic silences.
I worked two jobs through school.
I bused tables at an Italian restaurant on weekends and did IT help desk stuff for the university during the week.
I paid my own tuition.
Not all of it, because I did get some financial aid, but every dollar that wasn’t covered by grants came out of my own pocket.
Meanwhile, Tyler’s tuition, room, board, and spending money were all handled by Mom and Dad.
I found that out junior year when Tyler casually mentioned at Christmas dinner that Dad had just written a check for his spring semester.
$7,000.
While I was eating ramen four nights a week and rationing printer paper, I didn’t say anything.
I just smiled and said, “That’s great, Tyler,” and went back to my mashed potatoes.
My mom looked at me for a second like she was trying to figure out if I was being sarcastic.
I wasn’t.
I’d gotten very good at not being sarcastic.
Sarcasm implies you expect better, and I’d stopped expecting better a long time ago.
The real gut punch came the summer before my senior year.
I’d been accepted into a competitive internship program at a tech company in Philadelphia.
It was a big deal, not just for my resume, but for my confidence.
Somebody important had looked at my work and said, “Yes, this kid has something.”
I called home to tell my parents and got my mom on the phone.
I explained the whole thing, how selective the program was, how it could lead to a full-time offer after graduation, how excited I was.
She said, “Oh, that sounds wonderful, sweetheart.”
Then she said, “Oh, hold on. Your dad wants to talk to you.”
My dad got on the phone.
I started to tell him about the internship.
He cut me off about 30 seconds in and said, “Hey, quick thing. Your brother’s engagement party is that same weekend. You’re coming, right?”
Tyler was marrying his college girlfriend, a woman named Jessica, who was perfectly nice and completely uninteresting in the way that people who’ve never been challenged by anything tend to be.
Their engagement party was on a Saturday in July.
My internship orientation was the Monday right after.
I told my dad I could probably make the party and then drive to Philadelphia on Sunday.
Probably.
He said, “Aaron, this is your brother’s engagement. Family comes first.”
I wanted to say, “Does it, though? Because from where I’m standing, family seems to come first for Tyler and somewhere around fourth for me, right after yard maintenance and that leaky faucet you’ve been meaning to fix for three years.”
But I didn’t say that.
I said I’d be there, and I was.
I drove four hours to Harrisburg, sat through a party where I knew maybe half the people, listened to my dad give a 20-minute speech about how Tyler was the greatest thing to ever happen to the family, and then drove four hours to Philadelphia the next morning, running on three hours of sleep and gas station coffee.
Nobody asked about my internship at the party.
Not one person.
My aunt Clare asked if I was still doing the computer thing, which is basically the equivalent of asking a surgeon if they’re still doing the cutting thing.
I said yes.
She said, “Good for you,” and went to get more wine.
After college, Tyler moved back to Harrisburg and took a job at a mid-level financial planning firm.
He made decent money, nothing spectacular, and he and Jessica bought a house in a subdivision where every third house looks exactly the same.
They had a baby within two years, a boy named Gavin.
And suddenly Tyler wasn’t just the golden child.
He was the golden child who had produced a golden grandchild.
And my parents lost their minds.
Every phone call with my mom became a Gavin update.
Every visit home was centered around Gavin’s schedule.
My dad built a nursery in their house.
A full nursery in a house where the guest room I used to sleep in was converted specifically for a baby who visited every other weekend.
When I came home for visits, I slept on the couch.