I was never supposed to be the rich one in the family. That title belonged to my younger sister, Morgan—the golden child, the homecoming queen, the girl with the 4.2 GPA who got into every Ivy League school she applied to. I was just Justin.
Thirty-four. Quiet. A little awkward in big groups.
More comfortable reading quarterly reports than talking about fashion trends or extravagant weddings. I work in private equity, though you would never know it by looking at me. I still wear the same sixty-dollar watch I have had since college.
I drive a ten-year-old Honda Accord. I live in a house outside Charlotte that I paid off in cash two years ago. No debt.
No drama. No need to show off. That was probably why nobody in my family ever really understood what I did, and I never bothered correcting them.
They thought I worked in some vague finance thing. My mother once told a friend I was a bank teller or something like that. I just smiled and nodded.
It was easier than explaining leveraged buyouts and silent partnerships, especially since Morgan soaked up all the attention anyway. She always had. Even when we were kids, it felt like I was the backup sibling.
The spare. She got piano lessons, ballet recitals, private tutors. I got told to keep it down during her practice sessions.
If she wanted something, the whole house bent around making it happen. If I needed help with school, life, or anything else, I got a pat on the back and a soft, distracted, “You’ll figure it out.”
I am not bitter. At least, I was not.
For most of my life, I kept my head down, worked hard, and made peace with the fact that my parents—especially my mother—saw Morgan as the shining hope of the family. They called her our little star, even after we were both well into our twenties. And Morgan played the part beautifully.
Smiling. Charming. Always just helpless enough to need rescuing by someone else’s checkbook.
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