For as long as the Harrington’s have been alive, almost every generation has its own success. Steve was named after his great-grandfather. That must be why his posture was never straight; subconsciously, he always bore the weight of the Harrington name.

To his credit, he was good at something. Basketball. If only he had put in the effort for his academics maybe he could have rubbed it in his father’s face that he could have made a living playing basketball.

No one believed in him, and he hated it when people called out his name. It would sound like cruel mockery, a testament to his complete failure. He hated how everyone’s lips formed around the rough noise of the “v” and how they would draw out the “e,” as if speaking his name was a chore.

Then there was you. His name didn’t sound so bad from your lips. You were the only one who believed in him, so that’s why you’re in his bedroom helping him study for his retest for his SATs.

”Honey, I’m trying, but I just don’t get it. All this was never my thing.” He sighed, frustrated, burying his face behind his hands.