I love my family, but being the middle child is like being the bologna in a sandwich—everyone’s fighting over the bread while you’re stuck in the middle.
I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wanted to make up some lame excuse, but then I thought about Tina and Cameron—my perfect older sister and my never-do-wrong little brother.
They’d be there, basking in Mom and Dad’s approval, as always. And if I didn’t show up, I’d remain the forgotten middle child.
“Count me in,” I typed, hitting send before I could change my mind.
Mom replied instantly. “Great! Le Petit Château, 7 p.m. next Friday. Don’t be late!”
Le Petit Château. Fancy. I let out a low whistle, mentally calculating my savings. This wasn’t going to be cheap, but maybe this dinner meant things were changing. Maybe they actually wanted to spend time with me—Jennifer the Invisible.
That Friday, I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, nerves buzzing. Just as I was about to go inside, Mom and Dad pulled up. Mom was smiling, while Dad wore his usual concerned look.
Inside, we found a cozy table, and soon enough, Tina and her husband, Robert, joined us. Tina looked stunning, as always, making me feel like a potato in comparison. Finally, Cameron showed up—late, as usual—and immediately started complaining about the traffic.
With everyone gathered, Mom wasted no time reminding me where I stood.
“So, Jennifer,” she said, peering at me over her menu, “how’s work going? Still at that little marketing firm?”
I nodded, trying not to bristle at the word “little.” “Yeah, it’s good. We just landed a big client, actually. I’m leading the campaign.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mom said, her attention drifting back to Tina, who was regaling Dad with stories of her son’s latest soccer game.
It stung, but I tried to shake it off. The food was great, and the atmosphere eventually warmed. We laughed and talked, and for a brief moment, it felt like I actually belonged.
But then the check came.
Dad reached for it, like he always did. But this time, he paused, frowning as he looked at me.
“Jennifer,” he said, his tone oddly formal, “you’ll need to cover your portion tonight.”
I blinked, sure I had misheard. “What?”
“You’re an adult now,” he said, as if explaining something to a child. “It’s time you started paying your own way.”
“But…” I hesitated, my voice barely audible, “I thought this was a family dinner. You’re covering everyone else.”
Dad’s frown deepened. “Your sister and brother have families to support. You’re single, so it’s only fair.”
Fair. The word echoed in my mind like a cruel joke. I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. Without another word, I pulled out my credit card and handed it to the waiter, praying it wouldn’t get declined.
The rest of the night was a blur. As I drove home, hurt twisted into something else—something harder, angrier.
The next morning, I woke up with a headache and a heart full of resentment. I spent the day alternating between moping on the couch and pacing my apartment. By evening, I’d made up my mind.
I wasn’t letting this go. Not this time.
An idea started to form—crazy at first, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I was going to give them a taste of their own medicine.
I invited Mom and Dad over for dinner and spent days planning. I cleaned my apartment until it sparkled, bought fancy candles, and even splurged on a tablecloth that wasn’t from the dollar store. I perfected the menu, determined to make the night unforgettable.
The night of the dinner arrived, and I was eerily calm. I had a plan, and I intended to see it through.
The doorbell rang at 7 p.m. sharp. I took a deep breath and opened the door with a practiced smile.
“Mom, Dad! Come in!”
Dad handed me a bottle of wine. “Place looks nice, Jennifer.”
“Thanks,” I said, guiding them to the living room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Can I get you something to drink?”
As I poured their wine, Mom’s eyes roamed over my bookshelf. “How have you been, dear? We haven’t heard much from you since… well, since our last dinner.”
I forced a light laugh. “Oh, you know. Work keeps me busy.”
We made awkward small talk until the oven timer saved us.
“Dinner’s ready!” I announced, maybe a bit too cheerfully.
I had outdone myself—herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables, and a quinoa salad that took forever to perfect. Mom and Dad were impressed, making appreciative noises as they ate.
“This is delicious, Jennifer,” Mom said. “I didn’t know you could cook like this.”
I shrugged, holding back the sting at her surprise. “I’ve learned a few things.”
The meal progressed smoothly, almost pleasantly. I almost forgot why I’d invited them. But then Dad started lecturing about financial responsibility, and I knew it was time.
As I cleared the plates and brought out a tiramisu for dessert, I steeled myself.
“So,” I said, setting down the dessert plates, “I hope you enjoyed the meal.”
They nodded, smiling. “It was wonderful,” Mom said.
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Great. That’ll be $47.50 each, please.”
The silence was deafening. Mom’s fork clattered against her plate. Dad’s face shifted through confusion, disbelief, then anger.
“I’m sorry, what?” he sputtered.
I kept my voice steady, echoing Dad’s tone from that night at the restaurant. “You’re both adults. It’s time you started paying your own way.”
Mom’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “But… you invited us to your home.”
“Exactly,” I said, my voice hardening. “Just like you invited me to dinner and then made me pay for my meal while covering everyone else’s.”
Understanding dawned on their faces, followed by shame.
“Jennifer,” Dad started, his voice gruff. “We didn’t mean…”
“Didn’t mean what?” I interrupted, years of frustration boiling over. “Didn’t mean to make me feel less important than Tina or Cameron? Or did you just not expect to be called out on it?”
Mom reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “We had no idea you felt this way,” she whispered.
I laughed, but it was hollow. “Of course, you didn’t. You’ve never noticed. I just want you to do better. To see me.”
Dad stood up, looking uncomfortable. I thought he might leave, but instead, he walked over and hugged me—awkward, too tight, but genuine.
“We see you, Jennifer,” he said, his voice shaky. “We’re proud of you. We’ve taken you for granted, and that ends now.”
Mom joined the hug, and for a minute, we just stood there—an awkward tangle of arms and emotions.
When we pulled away, Mom gave a watery chuckle. “About that bill…”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “This one’s on me. But next time? We’re splitting it evenly.”
Dad nodded solemnly. “Deal.”
As they left, things weren’t magically fixed. Years of feeling overlooked don’t disappear in one night. But it was a start—a crack in the wall, letting in a glimmer of hope.
