I felt something old and familiar tighten in my chest. That same sentence, the one I’d heard my entire life. You’re the strong one. Which really meant you’re the one who gives things up. I looked down at the contract again. Then I asked the question that had been waiting inside me for thirty years.
“If I sign this, will it finally be enough?”
My parents didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” my father said.
And that was when I picked up the pen. The pen felt heavier than it should have. It was just an ordinary ballpoint, cheap plastic, blue ink. But as I held it above that contract, it carried the weight of thirty-eight years. Thirty-eight years of birthdays where Jason got the bigger cake slice. Thirty-eight years of Christmas mornings where his gifts filled half the living room while mine fit neatly under the tree. Thirty-eight years of hearing the same sentence. You’re the strong one, Emily. I glanced once more at Daniel. He stood quietly by the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t confused, either. It was calm, almost expectant. That was Daniel. He never rushed into other people’s battles, but he never left my side either. The room was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator behind us. My father tapped the table impatiently.
