My father, Harold Dixon, retired three years ago from his position as a branch manager at a regional bank. My mother, Patricia, has never worked a paid job in her life, but she’ll tell you she’s busier than any CEO, chairing the church women’s committee, organizing neighborhood fundraisers, maintaining what she calls our family’s reputation.
Then there’s my sister, Megan, 3 years younger than me, married to Derek Hartley, a corporate attorney at a firm downtown whose name she drops into every conversation. They have two kids, a 5-year-old named Oliver and a three-year-old named Sophie, and a brand new Lexus SUV that always gets the prime spot in our parents’ driveway.
My Honda Civic, the one I’ve been driving for 10 years. It gets parked on the street.
Wendy, move your car. My mother would say whenever I visited, Derek’s bringing the Lexus, and guests notice what’s in the driveway first.
I never questioned it. I just moved my car.
That’s the thing about being the invisible one in your family. You stop noticing all the small ways they’ve already decided you don’t matter. The nicer parking spot, the better seat at the table. The way your mother introduces your sister to guests by her husband’s job title. While you’re just Wendy, she helps out.
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