Olivia didn’t even say thanks.
She was too busy directing Brad on where to hang their wedding photos.
Last year, my car died. Not “broke down.” Not “needed repairs.” Fully died—engine seized up, transmission shot, the whole thing beyond repair. The mechanic took one look and basically said I should donate it for scrap.
I needed a car for work since I have to drive to client meetings, and I didn’t have enough saved for a decent down payment after helping my parents pay for their new roof a few months earlier.
Yeah, you read that right.
I helped pay for their roof because they didn’t have the liquid cash available and it was an emergency. I gave them $3,000 from my savings. Still haven’t been paid back, but who’s counting?
So when my car died, I asked my parents if they could help me with a loan. Not a gift—a loan.
I offered to pay them back with interest.
My dad said they couldn’t help because they were financially stretched after buying Olivia’s house and helping Brad’s dad with some business expansion. The same dad who drops $200 on golf games every weekend somehow couldn’t help his son buy reliable transportation for work.
I ended up taking out a high-interest loan from a credit union and buying a used sedan that was decent enough. It wasn’t fun making those payments, but I handled it because that’s what I do.
I handle things.
The family dinners were always the worst.
My parents insisted on Sunday dinners at their place every week. It was supposedly about family bonding, but really it was just an opportunity for everyone to talk about how amazing Olivia and Brad’s life was while I sat there like a potted plant. They’d go on and on about Brad’s latest business deal or Olivia’s new Pilates studio membership or their upcoming trip to Cabo.
Meanwhile, if I tried to mention anything about my life, the conversation would last about thirty seconds before someone redirected it back to the golden couple.
I mentioned I got a promotion to senior analyst last year—a pretty big deal with a significant raise. My mom said, “That’s nice, dear,” and then immediately asked Olivia about her plans for redecorating their living room. I could have announced I was moving to Mars and gotten the same level of interest.
But I kept showing up to these dinners because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment.
Or maybe I kept hoping something would change—that they’d wake up one day and realize they had two kids, not just one.
Around six months ago, things started getting worse. Olivia got pregnant—finally—after years of trying, and suddenly she became even more untouchable than before. Every conversation was about the baby: her pregnancy symptoms, the nursery design, baby names, strollers, cribs.
Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for her.
Being an uncle seemed cool.
But the obsession level was intense.
My mom basically moved into Olivia’s house to help her. She’d go over there every single day—meal prep, clean, do laundry—whatever Olivia needed. My dad would drop everything to run errands for them. I’m talking Olivia would text my dad asking for a specific type of pickle from a store forty minutes away, and he’d drop what he was doing and go get it.
Meanwhile, I threw my back out moving office furniture at work and couldn’t walk without pain for a week. I called my mom to ask if she could grab me some groceries since I literally couldn’t drive.
She said she was busy helping Olivia organize the nursery and suggested I use Instacart.
Cool.
Got it.
Message received loud and clear.
Pregnancy made Olivia even more demanding than usual. She’d call me for random stuff constantly.
“Come fix my garbage disposal.”
“Come hang curtain rods.”
“Come move bags of mulch for my garden because Brad’s at a golf tournament and I need it done right now.”
The word pregnant became her magic card to play whenever she wanted something done immediately.
And I did it every single time, like an absolute chump.
Three months ago, my parents announced they were paying for a family vacation to Florida. They’d rented a huge beach house in Destin for a full week. It was meant to be a babymoon for Olivia before the baby came.
The whole family was going.
My parents. Olivia. Brad. Brad’s parents. Even Brad’s sister and her family.
When they told me about it at Sunday dinner, I assumed I was invited. I mean, they said family vacation, and I’m technically family, right?
Wrong.
My mom was going through the details of who was sleeping where, and I realized she never mentioned a room for me. So I asked, trying to keep it casual, “Which room am I in?”