To understand how I got here, you have to understand my family. Love, in our house, came with a price tag. I wouldn’t call my parents abusive, but their affection was conditional. I was the responsible one, the dependable son who never rebelled, never caused trouble, and never gave them a reason to complain.

My older brother, Zach, was the golden child. He could do no wrong, even when he did everything wrong. He dropped out of college? “He’s just finding himself,” they’d say. He was fired from three consecutive jobs? “Corporate life just doesn’t appreciate his creativity.” He moved back home at thirty with no job and zero prospects? “Times are tough for everyone.”