My mother opened the door before I rang.
“Callum,” she said, hugging me quickly. “I’m so glad you came.”
The house smelled like roast, butter, and the lemon polish she used on the dining table. Everything looked beautiful. Too beautiful. The good dishes were out. Cloth napkins. Fresh flowers. The framed hallway photographs seemed to watch me as I walked past: Landon smiling, Landon winning, Landon being celebrated from every wall.
My one science fair photo was still near the coat closet.
I paused beside it.
The boy in the picture looked hopeful in a way I barely recognized.
Dinner began politely. My mother asked Savannah about the wedding. Savannah talked about venues, seating charts, and a florist who kept suggesting eucalyptus for everything. My father asked Landon about work, and Landon gave a modest little summary of big things, carefully shaped to sound impressive without sounding boastful.
I ate slowly.
The USB drive pressed against my ribs.
When dessert plates were set out and no one had taken a bite, my father cleared his throat.
There it was.
“Callum,” he said, “your mother and I need to talk to you.”
I folded my hands. “Okay.”
He looked directly at me. “Your brother feels you’ve been distant.”
Landon lowered his eyes right on cue.
“I miss my brother,” he said softly.
My mother reached over and squeezed his hand.
For a moment, I almost admired the performance. It was clean. Believable. Landon knew exactly how to make concern look like injury.
My father continued. “You have been cold toward him. Dismissive. And frankly, there is an edge in you lately that your mother and I find troubling.”
“An edge,” I repeated.
“We understand it can be difficult,” my mother said. “Watching someone close to you succeed.”
I looked at her. “Do you?”
She blinked.
My father’s voice hardened. “This attitude is exactly what we mean.”
Landon sighed. “I don’t want this to become a fight.”
Of course he did not. Fights are dangerous when you have something to hide.
My mother looked at me with sad eyes. “Honey, we think you should apologize.”
“For what?” I asked, though I already knew.
“For your jealousy,” my father said.
The room went quiet enough for me to hear the candle near the centerpiece hiss softly in its glass holder.
Jealousy.
After years of late-night calls. After writing the difficult parts of his projects. After watching my ideas walk into rooms on his back while my parents called him brilliant. After seeing proof that he had accessed my files forty-seven times. They had found the simplest story, the one that kept Landon golden and made me small.
My father set down his fork.