For most of my life, I’ve been the extra chair at the table. Present, but unnoticed.

My name is Betty. I’m divorced, no children, and in my family, that has always translated to “less important.” My older brother, Peter, is the shining success story. His son, Nick, has been treated like royalty since the day he was born.

Nick never hears “no.” He hears “he’s just young,” “boys will be boys,” and my personal favorite, “don’t be so sensitive, Betty.”

On my fortieth birthday, I decided to celebrate myself for once. I bought a blue SUV—brand new, shining, mine. No one clapped. No one asked about it.

Except Nick.

“Can I take it for a spin?” he asked, twirling the keys I hadn’t handed him.

“No,” I said firmly. “You don’t even have a license.”

He rolled his eyes like I’d insulted him personally.

That night, I hosted a small birthday dinner at my place.

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