At my grandmother’s will reading, my mother sat in front of fourteen silent people, watched the lawyer read out a $2.3 million estate that somehow included everyone but me, then turned with a smile so calm it felt practiced and said, “You were always her least favorite.” And for one humiliating second, I thought she had finally found the perfect way to erase me in public.

I chose a different path by becoming a third grade teacher in a public school in Worcester where I found genuine joy in seeing a child finally understand a difficult math problem. In the Miller household, however, my career was viewed as a quaint little hobby that I simply forgot to outgrow as I moved into my thirties.

Every Thanksgiving, whenever a relative would politely ask about my life, Marilyn would interrupt before I could speak to explain that I was still playing teacher for the little children. She would then immediately pivot the conversation back to Harrison’s million dollar deals in the city while making it clear that my contributions were entirely worthless in her eyes.

“Tessa is still busy with her little finger paintings and alphabet blocks,” Marilyn would say with a condescending chuckle that made the rest of the table go quiet. She would then turn to Harrison and ask, “Tell us more about that luxury high rise project in Boston because we are all so incredibly proud of your work.”