Landon looked at me over the rim of his glass and winked.
It was not affectionate. It was not brotherly.
It was a small, private signal from someone who knew he had taken something and believed I would never dare name it.
The first time Landon took credit for my work, he called it borrowing. I was sixteen and he was in graduate school. He called me late one Thursday night, voice tense, saying he had a project due the next morning and needed help with the logic. At first, I explained. Then I edited. Then I rewrote. By three in the morning, I had completed the hardest part of the project while he thanked me and promised he would “clean it up.”
He got an A.
My parents took us out for dinner to celebrate. My father clapped him on the shoulder. My mother said, “Landon, you’re going to do big things.”
I waited for him to mention me.
He did not.
When I brought it up later, my mother gave me a tired look. “Callum, family helps family.”
That became the family rule whenever Landon needed something. Family helps family when he needed a paper reviewed. Family helps family when he needed sample logic. Family helps family when he called me from his apartment because some algorithm “wasn’t behaving” and he did not have time to figure it out before a deadline.
But when I needed someone to come to my research presentation, everyone was busy.
My father had a client dinner. My mother had promised to help Savannah look at floral arrangements. Landon had an employee award ceremony that same week, and somehow the whole family found time to drive three hours to watch him stand on a stage and accept a plaque for innovation.
I presented my research in a university conference room with bad lighting, a squeaky podium, and thirty people who had never met me. Professors asked serious questions. A visiting researcher requested my paper. Dr. Sterling stood in the back with her arms folded, wearing the closest thing she had to a smile.
It was one of the proudest days of my life.
The family group chat that night was full of photos from Landon’s award ceremony.
My mother sent seventeen pictures.
She sent one text to me: Hope your presentation went well!
That was when I stopped expecting them to show up.
Not because it stopped hurting. Because I got tired of making appointments with disappointment.
Dr. Sterling noticed. She noticed everything.
A few weeks after the conference, I sat in her office while she reviewed my latest draft. She closed the folder and studied me.
“You’ve become quieter,” she said.
“I’ve always been quiet.”
“No,” she said. “You’ve become sad.”
I looked at the floor because if I looked at her, I might say too much.
She took the Washington brochure from a stack on her desk and slid it toward me again.
“The transfer deadline is March first.”
I touched the corner of the paper. “I don’t know if I can afford it.”
“There are scholarships. Assistantships. People who understand the value of your work.”
“My parents help with tuition here.”
“And?”
“And they could stop.”
Dr. Sterling leaned back. “Then you need a future they cannot hold hostage.”