You ever brace yourself to get yelled at—like mentally suit up, put on your emotional armor, tell yourself "bring it on"—but then it still hits like a dodgeball to the face you didn't see coming?
Yeah. That was me.
Sitting there, in the passenger seat of Dad's truck, hands clenched so tight my knuckles looked like ghost fingers. I was already flinching before the words even started.
And look—getting yelled at? Not new. My eardrums are basically retired veterans at this point. They've heard it all. Volume ten. Slammed doors. The disappointed sigh. The long, dramatic pauses. You name it, I've survived it.
But it's never the yelling that gets me. It's the comparison part.
That's where they stab the knife in, twist it, and sprinkle a little salt for flair.
This time? It was the usual.
"Why can't you be more like your sister, huh? Theresa never pulled this crap. Theresa never got kicked out of three schools. Theresa respects herself and her family—"
Theresa.
God. That name could be its own curse word in my brain.
I know what you're thinking. Wow, your parents named you and your sister after historical figures, that's so quirky and meaningful. Shut up. It's not cool when you're the one actually living it.
I got stuck with Thomas—after Thomas freaking Edison. The lightbulb guy. The "I didn't fail, I just found 10,000 ways that won't work" dude.
Ironically fitting, huh? Because if failure was an Olympic sport, I'd be breakdancing on the podium right now.
And my sister? Theresa. As in Mother Theresa. Literal saint. Helping the poor. Healing the sick. Glowing with divine energy or whatever.
Meanwhile I'm over here trying to not eat glue in chemistry class and arguing with Mr. Brandwaters about whether Shakespeare actually sucked. (Spoiler: he did, and I stand by that.)
So yeah. It's always:
"Theresa would never do that."
"Theresa's on the honor roll."
"Theresa volunteers at soup kitchens on Saturdays."
And meanwhile I'm just trying not to light anything on fire with my emotional instability.
And the worst part? I like my sister. Like, genuinely. She's actually cool in a younger-sister, steals-my-socks-but-also-gives-great-hugs kind of way. She doesn't even act smug about being the golden child. Which makes the whole thing so much worse.
Because it's not even about her.
It's about me. Always me. Screwing up. Falling short. Making things harder.
I stared out the window like it was my last lifeline. The lights of passing stores blurred into streaks—like the world was moving faster than I could catch up. My reflection looked back at me in the glass, all pale skin and tired eyes and that stupid flop of hair that refused to sit right. I looked like a kid who was trying too hard to seem older and failing miserably.
"Do you even care, Thomas?" Dad snapped again. His hands clenched the steering wheel like it had personally offended him.
Yes. God. Of course I cared.
I just didn't know how to show it without screwing it up more.
I opened my mouth, but my throat did that dry, traitor thing where it forgot how to form words, so all I got out was a whispery, "I didn't mean to—"
"You never mean to. That's the problem."
Boom.
That one landed like a brick to the chest.
My stomach twisted like I'd eaten spoiled meat—or maybe just guilt, slow-roasted and seasoned with shame.
I wanted to say something clever. Something honest. Something anything.
But all I could do was sit there, swallowing the lump in my throat and gripping my jeans so hard the denim left imprints on my palms.
Because here's the thing they don't tell you when you're a screw-up teen with big feelings and no manual:
Sometimes you mess up so hard, you don't even know what "better" looks like anymore. You just keep moving forward hoping that somewhere along the way, you'll stop being the problem.
Anyway—back to the subject. My sister.
The family's personal ray of sunshine. Our perfectly polished white sheep. The chosen one. The Hermione Granger of our sad little household.
Theresa.
God, even her name sounds like it should be embroidered on a merit badge.
She's the type who eats salad on purpose and color-codes her notes and wakes up at 5 a.m. "just to study." Meanwhile, I once duct-taped my math book shut because I swore it was haunted. Spoiler: it was just algebra.
Dad used to pin his hopes on me, though. Like, you're gonna be a doctor, Tom. Make us proud, Tom. Be a man, Tom. All that stuff you hear in after-school specials before someone crashes a bike.
Then I got expelled.
The first time.
And like that, the spotlight swung straight to Theresa. Like the universe said, "Okay, clearly we picked the wrong sibling. Let's try again."
And she didn't fail. Oh no. She thrived. One year ahead of me in school, even though I'm two years older. (Let that sting sit for a second.) Top of her class. Future head girl. Probably going to graduate valedictorian while holding a kitten and giving a TED Talk on how to not suck at life.
Me? I was... the other one. The screw-up. The cautionary tale.
And Dad? Yeah, he made damn sure I remembered that.
So when he finally stopped yelling and dropped his voice to that simmering disappointed-dad tone, I almost flinched harder than I did during the full-volume lecture.
"You can't just be like your sister, Tom?" he asked. Quietly. Almost like he was tired.
Like I hadn't already asked myself that same question a hundred times.
And then came the death sentence:
"I'm grounding you for the rest of the summer."
My heart actually skipped. Like, physically. Like my body was trying to make a run for it.
"No phones, no TV. Nothing."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he wasn't done.
"You're coming with me to the stables. Maybe you'll learn something there."
The stables.
Oh. My. God.
I stared at him, completely speechless for the first time since birth.
The stables? Like, where the actual horses are? The animals that poop standing up and give you that judgy look like they know you lied about brushing your teeth?
I hated horses. Always have. Ever since I rode one when I was six and it tried to bite me because I offered it a cookie. I'm still not sure who screamed louder—me or the horse—but the emotional damage stuck.
"I—horses?" I croaked, finally. "Like, real horses? With... hooves?"
"Welcome to consequence," Dad grunted, like this was his big mic drop moment.
I slumped back in the seat and stared at the ceiling of the truck like maybe God would hear me and send a lightning bolt. Or a distraction. Or, I don't know, a small apocalypse.
But nope. Just the quiet hum of the engine and the smell of sweat, fast food grease, and emotional ruin.
Inside, I was spiraling.
No phone. No internet. No books. Just manure and judgment and awkward silence with my father.
Awesome.
Just what every expelled kid with self-worth issues dreams of—manual labor with a side of hay fever and parental disappointment.
And maybe—maybe—I deserved it. I don't know.
But I was already counting the seconds until this summer ended… and praying I didn't step in anything I couldn't emotionally wipe off.
I turned to Mom like she was my last lifeline on this sinking ship called "My Entire Freaking Life." We locked eyes. Mine were saying please, like full-blown anime-level begging eyes. Hers were... tired.
I didn't wanna go to the stupid stables. I didn't want to learn how to brush a horse's butt or bond with animals that could yeet me into the next county with one kick. But school? Nah. That was a whole different battlefield filled with Shakespeare, eye rolls, and social doom.
So yeah. It was stables or school. Like choosing between being eaten by a bear or slowly digested by a sea cucumber.
My mom knew what I was thinking. I know she did. I gave her that desperate little head-tilt I used to pull when I was six and wanted extra dessert. The "Mom, save me from Dad's justice system" face.
Her lips twitched. Not a smile, but like they were thinking about remembering what a smile felt like.
"Darling," she said, soft and smooth, clearing her throat like she was about to audition for a drama series called How to Stop Your Husband from Emotionally Pulverizing Your Son in Public.
She reached for Dad's arm—gently, like he was a grenade that might go off if touched wrong. Her thumb rubbed tiny circles into his jacket sleeve. Meanwhile, I tried to casually eavesdrop like I wasn't totally tuned in to every word like a spy in a discount hoodie.
I couldn't catch all of it—Dad had his grumpy low-voice thing on, and Mom was whispering like we were in church—but I heard enough: "Margaret," "library," "favor," and something about "he could help around."
Which could mean anything. Maybe she was trying to convince him to dump me in a library instead of the stables? Books over boots? Paper cuts over hoof prints?
Yes, please.
I stared at the action figure on the dashboard like it held the secrets of the universe. I felt gross—like I was betraying my whole "I'll take responsibility" speech from earlier. But seriously. I said I'd stand up for myself, not get thrown headfirst into a pile of hay and emotional trauma.
And then there was this weird lump in my throat. Not crying—I don't cry, okay? (Except maybe during that scene in that dog movie... but that doesn't count, the dog died.) This lump was more like guilt and hope and fear all crammed together, fighting over who got to ruin my day first.
I didn't want to be a disappointment. Again.
But I also didn't want to smell like horses for the rest of my natural life.
So yeah, I kept staring at my mom like she was my personal wizard, hoping she'd pull a magic "Get Out of Stable Jail Free" card out of her coat pocket and hand it to me with a wink.
She didn't. Not yet, anyway.
But her voice softened more. She said the word "please." And when Mom says "please" to Dad, stuff sometimes happens. Not always. But enough times for me to cross my fingers under the table.
I held my breath. The ball was in her court.
Or maybe in the horse's stall. I honestly couldn't tell anymore.
By the time we rolled into the driveway—Dad still doing that thing where his jaw looked like it wanted to punch something—he'd cooled off. Not refrigerator cool, but like, lukewarm spaghetti left out too long cool. Still edible. Still dangerous. Still no way I was talking first.
The car hummed to a stop, and there was this moment. Like… the air just froze, and I could feel the tension melting off him like sweat. But not in a good way. More like the "I'm pretending I'm fine but I'm totally gonna passive-aggressively grunt at you all evening" way.
So yeah. I knew I was screwed. Fully grounded. No phone, no TV, no gaming, no soul. I mean, I technically told myself I could handle it. But let's be real: that was a lie. A bold-faced, self-soothing, "you got this bro" lie. I couldn't last two days without my phone, let alone the entire freaking summer.
Still, I nodded to myself like I was giving an Oscar speech for Best Performance in a Teen Who Pretends to Be Emotionally Stable, grabbed my stuff from the back seat—backpack, grocery bag, and my last shred of dignity—and shuffled toward the porch like a kid heading to detention.
And boom.
There she was.
Standing on the porch like a literal boss battle in a perfectly ironed blouse and that smug I'm-just-happy-to-see-you smile plastered across her face: Theresa.
Yeah. My sister. The golden child. The walking academic flex. The reason our family group chat is 90% "Look what Theresa did!" and 10% me sending memes no one laughs at.
I froze mid-step. Just for a second. Like my brain needed a full reboot to deal with this. Then I kicked back into gear and kept walking like she wasn't there, like maybe if I didn't make eye contact she'd vanish into a puff of glitter and superiority.
"Hey, Tom!" she called out, way too chipper for someone who definitely saw me getting out of a truck that screamed failure and regret.
I did this awkward half-nod like my neck forgot how to work and just... kept walking. Straight past her. Into the house. Didn't even bother with a fake smile. I didn't have the energy for a sibling showdown, not tonight.
Because I knew what came next.
The comparisons. The sly looks. The "Dad said you got expelled again" conversations over dinner that ended with her getting an extra cookie and me getting the disappointed silence. You'd think being older would give me some kind of edge. Nope. She was younger, smarter, prettier, and probably didn't stab chairs with nails to prove a point about Shakespeare.
I didn't know how long she was back home for—summer break, a weekend, eternal punishment sent by the gods—but I knew one thing:
Avoid her. At all costs.
Even if it meant hiding in the laundry room with a bag of chips and a book I probably wasn't allowed to read anymore.