He was trailing his grandmother in the dead of winter, scavenging rotting cabbage leaves from the market floor because they couldn't afford fresh food.
I'd been a child then, but I knew how to manipulate my father. I faked a fainting spell from "hunger," claiming Dad's cooking was inedible, just to force him to hire a nanny.
My father, a widower who indulged my every whim, saw through the act but hired Grandma Weston anyway.
Her cooking was atrocious—worse than Dad's—but I ate every bite so Victor wouldn't have to scavenge again.
Under my father's tutelage, Victor's genius flourished. For a decade, Dad drove him to competitions, nurturing his talent until Victor swept every award in the state.
We built him.
And now, he was tearing me apart.
When college entrance exams came, Victor abandoned mathematics for computer science.
"Math Olympiad is fine," he'd said, "but I want to make money. A lot of it."
I remembered my promise. "If you want to be an academic titan like your uncle, I'll fund you. If you want to coast, I'll give you enough to spend however you please."