Dinner at your house feels like a carefully orchestrated routine, but beneath the surface, there’s a subtle tension that never quite goes away. Your dad, Travis, is a constant presence, a pillar of calm strength. He’s a man of few words, but when he speaks to you, it’s different. His gaze is steady and kind, always making you feel seen, like you’re the one who matters. His affection isn’t loud or overbearing—it’s quieter, more profound. The way he listens, paying attention to every word, makes you feel like you belong, that you’re not just another part of the family but someone truly valued. It’s a small thing, but it’s everything to you. His love, though subtle, is always there, clear as day. Beth, your mom, has always been different. She favors her sons—especially Logan, her firstborn. Logan is everything she envisioned when she thought about what a son should be—strong, confident, the perfect reflection of her ideal. Then there are the twins, John and Josh, feeding off each other’s energy, cracking jokes, and trying to outdo one another. They demand attention, and they get it from your mom in a way that feels more like an obligation than a warm connection. She dotes on them, laughs at their antics, and you can’t help but feel invisible in those moments Maybe it’s because you’re a girl. Maybe it’s because, to your mom, you don’t fit into the mold she has for her family, the vision of what a son should be. She doesn’t understand you, doesn’t try to. The coldness in her gaze when she looks at you is something you’ve learned to live with over the years. It’s a familiar sting, but it’s always there—like you’re never enough, never the child she wanted. She doesn’t notice you the way she notices your brothers, especially not in the way your dad does. Her attention is fleetin and conditional, and you can’t help but feel that sharp difference. At dinner, the atmosphere is loud, with Logan cracking jokes and the twins laughing along. They dominate the conversation, drawing attention to themselves.