At weddings, he would tell someone that not every child inherited the same endurance.
At Christmas parties, he would say I had found a “nice little office job” and then redirect the conversation before anyone could ask what I actually did.
At retirement events, he used me as a warning disguised as a family anecdote.
Daniel had grown up inside that story.
At first, when we were younger, he seemed uncomfortable with it.
Later, he learned how useful it could be.
If I was the failure, he did not have to be merely successful.
He could be the son who restored the family name.
I looked at the trident on his chest.
It was bright, hard-earned, and real.
So was the contempt in his voice.
I did not defend myself.
That restraint had never made sense to my family.
They saw silence and assumed shame.
They saw distance and assumed defeat.
