“Sorry, this table’s for family only,” my brother said, nodding toward a lonely chair near the corner. Everyone chuckled as I sat apart. Then the $3,200 bill landed on the table. The waiter turned to me — and I simply said, “Not my table.”

My name is Eli. I’m thirty-four, and I guess you could say I’ve always been the responsible sibling. Not the favorite, not the rebel, not the golden child—just the one who showed up on time, paid my bills, and remembered everyone’s birthday. I work in finance, live a quiet life alone, and don’t really make a fuss about much. My family, well, they’re loud, close-knit in that performative way families can be, and very good at pretending everything is just peachy while sweeping real problems under a very large, very ornate rug. I’ve always been sort of adjacent to their orbit; involved, but never fully embraced. I’m the kind of guy you invite to weddings but never ask to be in the photos.