Olivia, born much later, occupied a different category. She wasn’t expected to achieve in the same aggressive, dynastic way Marcus was. She was adored. Indulged. Protected from disappointment with a level of energy that would have been touching if I hadn’t spent so many years seeing what it looked like by contrast. Her wants arrived wrapped in softness. She didn’t have to argue for things because the whole household moved to anticipate her disappointment before she fully felt it.
And then there was me.
I was useful.
Responsible.
Capable.
Mature.
Those words sound complimentary until you realize how often adults use them to explain why one child can be asked to bear more than the others.
I was the child who could manage.
The child who wouldn’t make a scene.
The child who could handle disappointment.
The child who, because she had learned early how to contain herself, was continually given more reasons to do exactly that.
The inequality in our home was not subtle, though it was polished enough that outsiders could have mistaken it for ordinary family difference.