But inside our house, being the middle child did not mean being overlooked in the abstract. It meant becoming the control group in an experiment about worth. It meant growing up with two siblings whose desires were treated as signals, while mine were treated as requests that needed to survive scrutiny. It meant learning that fairness and affection are not synonyms. It meant watching the same parents who said no to me with stern moral lessons attached say yes to my siblings so quickly and generously that it was almost elegant.
The hierarchy in our family was never formally stated.
It didn’t need to be.
Children understand ranking long before adults admit that ranking exists.
Marcus was the golden child. The heir. The one whose confidence was nourished, whose plans were funded, whose mistakes were reframed as leadership experiments. If Marcus wanted something, my parents did not ask whether it was practical. They asked what would help him succeed. Even his failures were treated as evidence of ambition.