My parents never even bothered to call me by my real name. To them, I was just «the dumb one.» That was the label they stamped on me from the time I could barely read. Meanwhile, my brother, Darren, was celebrated like he was some kind of royalty. He was the genius, the pride of the Vale family, the one who made it all the way to Harvard on a full scholarship.
On his graduation day, my father stood tall in front of hundreds of guests, bragging about the empire Darren would inherit. He promised him the family’s $75 million company, a brand-new Tesla, and our $13 million mansion in New York. Everyone clapped like it was a coronation. I sat in the back, invisible and humiliated, wondering how I could ever escape the shadow they forced me into.
And then it happened. A man I had never seen before stepped up to me. He leaned down, handed me a thick white envelope, and whispered into my ear, «It’s time to tell them who you really are.» In that moment, everything I thought I knew about myself and everything my family believed was about to change.
I grew up in a house where love was handed out like trophies, and only my brother Darren ever won them. From the earliest days, my father, Victor Vale, made it clear who mattered in our family. Darren was the prodigy, the golden son, the one destined to carry the Vale name into the future. I was the other child, the one who never seemed to fit the mold of perfection they demanded.
At family dinners, I always sat in the same chair at the far end of the table. The mahogany surface stretched long between us, with my father at the head, Darren at his right hand, and my mother, Marielle, close by to beam with pride every time Darren spoke. By the time I opened my mouth, the conversation had already moved on. I learned that silence was safer than watching their eyes roll.
My father had a way of cutting me down with only a few words. I remember one evening when I was fourteen; Darren had just announced that he was accepted into an advanced science program. The table erupted with congratulations. My father lifted his glass and said, «That is what it means to be a Vale. Excellence, leadership, brilliance.» He turned to me with the faintest smirk. «And you, Aaron, you managed to pass gym class. We should be grateful for small victories.»
The room laughed. Even my mother, though her laugh was more delicate, as if she knew it was cruel but had grown used to playing along. It hurt in ways I could not explain, not because of the words themselves, but because they never imagined I could be anything more. My mother often whispered comparisons when she thought no one else was listening. «Why can’t you be more like your brother?» she would say while handing me a plate or passing me a stack of laundry. Her tone was calm, almost casual, but each remark settled into me like a stone sinking deeper into water.
Darren thrived in this environment. He played the role of the perfect son with ease. Tall, sharp-featured, and confident, he carried himself like he already owned the world. He knew he was the favorite and enjoyed reminding me of it. When I was 16, I worked a part-time job at a local diner to save for my own things. One night, as I left for work, Darren smirked at me from the living room couch, where he sat surrounded by our parents’ praise. «Don’t forget to clean the grease off your hands before you touch the door. We wouldn’t want the neighbors to think the Vale family has a servant.»
My parents laughed as if it was witty while I walked out the door, pretending it didn’t matter, but every comment like that chipped away at me. The only person who saw me differently was my grandfather, Eldon Vale. He had founded the family company decades earlier, building it from nothing into the empire my father now ran. Eldon was quieter, gentler, a man who believed in people more than profits.
Whenever I visited him, he never asked about grades or achievements. He asked about my thoughts, my dreams, and what made me happy. One afternoon, while we sat on his porch, he leaned closer and said, «Aaron, never mistake their blindness for truth. You have something Darren does not. One day, when the moment comes, you will know it. Do not let them convince you otherwise.» His words stayed with me, though I never fully understood them. To me, I was just the forgotten son, surviving in the shadows of a family that measured worth by trophies and headlines.
Life at home felt like a competition I was never allowed to win. My father trained Darren like a soldier for greatness. He brought him into board meetings as a teenager, let him shadow business deals, and told every guest at our house that Darren was the future of the Vale legacy. I was never invited to those meetings. Instead, I was told to mow the lawn, run errands, or stay out of sight. It was as if my existence was an inconvenience, something to be managed rather than celebrated.
The older we got, the more the gap between us widened. Darren’s acceptance to Harvard was treated like a national holiday in our household. My mother threw a party that very evening, complete with a catered dinner and champagne. Strangers congratulated me, assuming I must be proud, but behind the polite smiles, I felt invisible, as though I had no identity outside of being Darren’s brother.