Chapter 3 - The Favorite Son
Derek was not a bad person. That made the wound harder to explain.
He did not ask my parents to love him more loudly. He did not write the rules. He was simply born into the easier role and never questioned why the path cleared in front of him while mine stayed full of locked doors.
When he switched majors twice, my father called it exploration.
When I changed labs because my first advisor lost funding, Dad called it instability.
When Derek took a year off to “find direction,” Mom said he was thoughtful.
When I spent a summer in rural Nevada testing battery storage under brutal heat, she asked when I would get a real job.
At family dinners, Derek’s internships became announcements. My research became a topic people survived politely before asking if I was still “doing solar stuff.”
I learned to summarize my life in sentences small enough for them to dismiss quickly.
Yes, still in school.
Yes, still working on power systems.
No, not married.
No, not rich.
Yes, I know Derek is doing well.
After my PhD graduation, I waited all night for my parents to call. I told myself maybe they were embarrassed. Maybe they would say they had been wrong. Maybe they would ask for pictures. Maybe they would say the words I had wanted since I was a little girl building cardboard windmills in the garage while Derek’s soccer trophies filled the mantel.
At 11:18 p.m., Mom finally texted.
Did it go okay?
Not congratulations.
Not we’re proud of you.
Just that.
Something inside me did not shatter dramatically. It simply stopped reaching toward them.
May you like
The next morning, I changed my email signature to Sarah Mitchell, PhD.
Then I went to work.
