No one did. I was practically camouflaged.
A year later, when I was nine, I entered a statewide creative writing contest. I spent weeks working on my essay, writing and rewriting it at the kitchen table while my mom talked on the phone and ignored me.
I ended up winning first place for my age group. They handed me this beautiful, heavy wooden plaque with my name engraved on it.
I practically ran all the way home from the bus stop. I burst through the front door, found my mom in the kitchen, and held the plaque up like it was an Olympic gold medal.
I was beaming. I thought, finally, this is it. This is the thing that makes them look at me the way they look at him.
My mom paused her chopping, glanced at the plaque for a fraction of a second, and said, “Oh, that’s nice, Blair. Can you get the plates out? Carter is going to be starving after practice.”
She did not read it. She did not touch it.
I put the plaque down on the kitchen counter. A few days later, it got moved to the top of the refrigerator to make room for groceries. A month later, I found it in a box in the garage.
Meanwhile, Carter’s participation trophies were polished weekly and lined up on the living room mantel like holy relics. This was my normal.
My art projects, my straight-A report cards, my little achievements, all of them were treated as minor annoyances, background noise to the grand symphony of Carter’s life.
If I asked my dad to look at a drawing, he would mutter that he was busy checking Carter’s college fund. If I asked my mom to come to a parent-teacher conference, she would sigh and complain that it conflicted with Carter’s tutoring schedule.
I learned to swallow my words. I learned to stop sharing my joys because having them ignored hurt a thousand times worse than keeping them to myself.
But a child can only shrink herself down so much before she starts to suffocate. The real breaking point, the day I stopped trying to exist in their world entirely, happened when I turned sixteen.
If there is one birthday American culture tells you is supposed to be magical, it is your sixteenth. You watch the movies, you see the shows, you see your friends at school getting cars with giant red bows or surprise parties, or at the very least, a nice dinner with a cake.
I did not expect a car. I was not delusional. But I had dropped hints for months.
I had circled things in catalogs. I had casually mentioned restaurants I wanted to try. I just wanted one day, twenty-four hours, where the focus was on me.
The morning of my birthday, I woke up an hour before my alarm. I lay in bed, my heart actually fluttering with this stupid, stubborn hope.
I put on my favorite outfit, fixed my hair, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. I expected a balloon, maybe a card on the counter, maybe just my mom turning around from the stove and saying, “Happy birthday, sweetie.”
I walked in.
My dad, Craig, was sitting at the island, fiercely typing on his laptop, completely absorbed in some bank report. My mom, Brenda, was standing in front of Carter.
Carter was nineteen at the time, home from his freshman year of college, and he was getting ready for an interview for a highly competitive, prestigious pre-law summer internship.
Brenda was frantically adjusting his tie and smoothing his shoulders, her voice a high-pitched buzz of nervous energy.
“You remember what we practiced?” she was saying to him. “Firm handshake. Look them right in the eye. Mention your dad’s connections if you have to.”
I stood in the doorway for a full minute. Neither of them looked up.
Finally, I walked over to the fridge to get a glass of orange juice. My mom stepped back, admired Carter, and clapped her hands.
“Perfect,” she said. “Craig, get the keys. We can’t be late.”
My dad snapped his laptop shut. “Right. Let’s go, son. Big day.”
They bustled toward the garage door. I stood there holding my glass of juice.
“Have a good interview,” I said quietly.
Carter threw a thumbs-up over his shoulder. My parents did not even acknowledge I had spoken.
The door slammed shut, and the house fell into that heavy, oppressive silence. They were gone. They had completely, entirely forgotten my birthday.
I went to school. I did not tell anyone it was my birthday because the thought of someone pitying me was worse than the neglect.
When I got home that afternoon, the house was empty. They were still out, probably taking Carter to a celebratory late lunch. I went up to my room and sat on the edge of my bed.
I did not turn on the lights. I just sat there as the sun went down, watching the shadows stretch across my floor.
Around 8:00 p.m., I heard the garage door open, laughter echoing up the stairs, and the clinking of glasses. They were in a great mood.
I went downstairs. They were in the kitchen eating leftover pizza they had picked up on the way home.
My mom looked at me, completely unbothered.