Chapter 1: Drawing Straws and Breaking Chains

The night before the SATs, my parents lined us up in the kitchen and handed out straws—one of us would stay in school, the other would drop out for good.

It was a warm Georgia night, cicadas humming outside, and the kitchen lights flickered above us as my mom handed out the straws like it was some kind of old family tradition. The old linoleum was sticky under my bare feet. The smell of fried chicken from dinner still lingered, mixing with the lemon Pledge Mom used on the counters. The tension was so thick, you could almost see it shimmer between us. My palms were sweating as I held my straw. My heart thudded so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. I kept my eyes glued to the linoleum, scared to look up. My brother bounced his knee nervously beside me.

My brother drew the short straw, so I became the only one in the family to finish college.

The look on his face—part relief, part resentment—stuck with me all through those next years. I got used to the weight of that win, even when it felt more like a sentence than a prize.

But from that moment on, my parents always demanded that I send money to my brother and take care of him, always insisting I owed him.

It was like drawing that long straw put a target on my back. Every birthday, every holiday, every random Tuesday, there was always a call or a guilt-tripping text about how much I owed. My mom would sigh over the phone, “Family takes care of family,” and my dad would mutter about sacrifices while he watched the Braves game with the volume too loud.

When my brother got married, they forced me to buy him a big condo in downtown Savannah, always claiming that if I hadn’t stolen his chance to study and succeed, he would’ve bought even more by now.

I’d just finished paying off my own student loans when my parents sat me down at the dinner table, plates of leftover casserole between us. “Your brother deserves a clean slate. You know it’s only right,” my mom said, her voice all syrupy sweet. And just like that, my dreams of getting a place of my own vanished. Meanwhile, my brother strutted around River Street, showing off his new condo, never once thanking me.

When my brother got into a fight and lost his job, they forced me to bring him into my company, saying that if he’d been able to study, he wouldn’t have turned out so reckless.

I still remember the call from HR: “Your brother started a fight in the break room.” It was humiliating. My colleagues looked at me with pity, like I was babysitting a grown child. Every time my brother screwed up, my parents doubled down—“He’d be better off if you hadn’t taken his chance.”

Even when I got married, my wedding had to be less fancy than my brother’s. Otherwise, I’d be showing off and hurting his feelings.

My fiancée wanted a little jazz trio, maybe a garden ceremony. My mom flat-out vetoed it—“Think how that’ll make your brother feel.” So, we eloped to a courthouse in Chatham County, just the two of us and a bored-looking judge. My parents didn’t even send flowers.

But the truth is, even if we hadn’t drawn straws back then, with my brother’s grades, he couldn’t have even gotten into a community college.

I’d seen his report cards, scrawled with D’s and the occasional C-minus. He didn’t care about school, never had. He only cared about blaming someone else when things went wrong.

He was the one who shoved the study straw into my hand, but then used it as an excuse to bleed me dry for a lifetime.

I remember that moment so clearly—my brother’s fingers, sweaty and shaking, pushing the straw into my palm, eyes darting to our parents for approval. It was always about the next excuse, the next handout.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day we drew straws.

It didn’t make sense—one second I was an adult, the next I was a teenager again, staring at that same cracked table. But I knew I’d been given a second shot. It was as if time had snapped backward—same kitchen, same cracked Formica table, same hum of the fridge. I felt the old anxiety bubbling up, but this time, something steely sat under my skin.

This time, I took the dropout straw without hesitation and refused to switch.

I gripped it so tightly my knuckles went white. My jaw locked, and I stared him down, daring anyone to try and pry it from my fist. My brother’s mouth fell open, but I just stared him down. I felt a fierce, strange sense of freedom.

You can study wherever you want—but I’ll never stay in this family again.

I’d spent a lifetime living by their rules. Not anymore. I felt the weight slide off my shoulders, replaced by something that felt a lot like hope.