That swallowing my feelings made the room easier to breathe in. And by the time I was old enough to recognize the pattern, it was already too late to unlearn it. Brittany was the star, and I was the supporting actor.
Now I’m 35.
We save. We plan. The small things like Sunday pancakes, secondhand furniture, and Netflix nights… those are our luxuries.
Just last month, after nearly a year of budgeting, we finally finished renovating our living room.
Nothing fancy. Just new paint, a comfy sectional, and a flat-screen TV that had been on our wishlist forever. For us, it felt like winning the lottery.
That TV wasn’t just a TV.
It was the first big thing we bought for our family, not because we needed it, but because we wanted it. There’s a difference, and we’d finally earned that difference.
Brittany? She came over once, walked in, gave it a once-over, and said with a smirk, “Wow!
Someone’s feeling fancy these days. Didn’t know you were keeping up with the daily soaps!”
I gave her a tight smile. “We just wanted something nice for movie nights.”
“I mean, it must be nice when money’s not tight anymore.”
There it was! That familiar, passive-aggressive jab she’s mastered since childhood. Half-joke, half-dig, fully intended to land.
And I wish I could say I was surprised.
But that’s the thing about Brittany — she always finds a way to poke holes in your joy just enough to let the air out, but never enough to take the blame.
I let it slide. I always do.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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