nothing new

James was fourteen, but his childhood was a ledger of omissions. Gifts, attention, treats, even clothing—he received the leftovers. Second-hand shoes, hand-me-downs, budget toys. His younger brother received everything new, shiny, and approved. Every birthday was a lesson in restraint, every holiday a reminder that he was already “old enough” to take what remained. His parents framed it as teaching character. “You’re strong.” “You’re responsible.” “You don’t need everything to be happy.” But the truth was simpler: favoritism was easier than fairness. He learned to hide disappointment, to smile when needed, to make small victories with what he had. He organized the house, helped with chores, ran errands, and silently endured. Praise was rare and mechanical. His worth was measured by endurance, not joy. His little brother’s laughter echoed like a reminder of what he would never receive. His mother called it inspiration. His father called it preparation. By fourteen, James could anticipate needs before they were spoken, manage responsibilities without recognition, and accept the scraps as a natural order. He didn’t ask for more. He didn’t expect it. They said he was learning life skills. He learned something else. That being firstborn didn’t mean being loved. It meant being useful.