Chapter 1: The Overlooked Son

Ask anyone from Anchorage to Miami—they’ll tell you the President’s got three sons. We’re practically trending on Twitter every other week.

If you turn on the news or scroll through your phone, you’ve probably heard about us—sometimes I think strangers know more about my family than I do. My brothers and I grew up under the brightest spotlights, our lives dissected by cable pundits and roasted in late-night monologues. Even the White House staff has an office pool on which brother will land where.

The oldest is bold, the second is sharp, and the third? Well, that’s me—the so-called average one.

You could say my big brother Derek was born running—never saw a challenge he didn’t barrel into. Caleb, the second, is basically playing chess in his sleep. Me? I’m the one people glance past at family dinners, still waiting for my big moment. Around here, ‘average’ is a four-letter word.

By some twist of fate, I’m that third son everyone in D.C. whispers about: the useless one.

In this house, everyone’s fighting to be first. Nobody cares about second place—least of all, me.

It’s a running joke in D.C.: the first son shoulders history, the second son tries to outsmart everyone, and the third just coasts. Some say I’m lazy; I say I’m just playing a different game.

People laugh at me for being too laid-back. I laugh right back—they never see the big picture.

What’s the rush? Let them scramble up the ladder and break their necks. I’d rather kick back, sip a Coke, and watch the show. The truth is, sometimes the guy lying low is the only one with any sense left.

I keep a Benjamin Franklin quote taped inside my prep school locker: plan ahead, know when to cash out, and you’ll come out on top.

Franklin had it right—work smart, not hard. He never said you have to win the race to win the game.