My Parents Sued Me For $50,000 Because I Refused To House My 31-year-old “Golden Child” Brother. Now Their Pension Is Being Garnished To Pay My Legal Fees. Am I The Jerk?

The Golden Child Dynamics

My parents gave money to my brother, covered his rent, and kept him from any responsibilities for years. When they retired, they told me to let him move into my house. I said no, and things escalated fast.

I, a 28-year-old male, grew up in one of those families where the favoritism was so obvious it could have been a case study in a psychology textbook. My older brother Kevin, a 31-year-old male, was the golden child who could literally set the house on fire, and my parents would blame the matches for being too flammable.

Meanwhile, I was basically the family afterthought. The “Oh right, we have another kid” son. Growing up in suburban Ohio, I learned pretty early that there were two sets of rules in our house: Kevin’s rules and everyone else’s rules.

Kevin could stay out until midnight on school nights because he was “socializing and building important life skills.” I had to be home by 8:00 p.m. because I “needed structure.” Kevin could quit every extracurricular activity he started because he was “finding himself.” I had to stick with band for four years, even though I hated the clarinet, because “commitment builds character.”

A Comedy of Errors

The double standards were so blatant it was almost funny. Almost. Kevin wrecked my dad’s car when he was 17. He drove it straight into a mailbox while texting, and my parents bought him a used Honda two weeks later so he could “learn from his mistake in a safer vehicle.”

I got a B+ on a chemistry test once, and my mom sat me down for a two-hour lecture about wasted potential. B+. I still remember her disappointed face, like I had personally let down every ancestor in our family tree.

School events were another joke entirely. Kevin would get average grades, nothing special, maybe a C+ average on a good semester. Every report card was celebrated like he had won a Nobel Prize. My parents would take him out for dinner, buy him something nice, and tell him how proud they were of his effort.

Meanwhile, I was pulling straight A’s, and the most I ever got was a nod of acknowledgement. Once, I made honor roll for the sixth consecutive semester, and my mom’s response was,

“Well, you’re supposed to do well.”

Thanks for the enthusiasm, Mother.

The Kevin Show

Holidays were always a production in the Kevin show. Christmas morning looked like Santa had a personal vendetta against me. Kevin’s pile of presents could block a doorway, while I would get maybe three or four practical items: socks, a calculator for school, or gift cards to places I never went.

One year, I got a toolkit while Kevin unwrapped a gaming console, the latest smartphone, and somehow a dirt bike. My mom’s explanation was that Kevin “needed more because he appreciates things differently.” I still do not know what that means. I’m pretty sure I would have appreciated a gaming console differently than a set of socket wrenches.

Birthdays followed the same pattern. Kevin’s parties were events—rented venues, catered food, all his friends invited. My birthdays were an afterthought.

“Do you even want a party this year?”

My mom would ask every year, making it clear that the answer she wanted was no. By the time I was 14, I had stopped expecting anything and just told them not to bother. Easier to have no expectations than to be disappointed again.

Moving On and Moving Out

My dad was always Kevin’s biggest cheerleader. Every mediocre achievement got celebrated like Kevin had cured cancer. Kevin made junior varsity soccer as a sophomore; Dad threw a party. Kevin graduated high school with a 2.1 grade point average; Dad cried actual tears of pride.

When I graduated salutatorian and got a full academic scholarship to Ohio State, my dad patted me on the shoulder and said,

“Good job,”

before asking if I had seen Kevin’s new sneakers. I stood there with a full ride to a major university, and my dad was more interested in footwear.

The thing about being the unfavored kid is you learn to stop expecting anything. You stop hoping your parents will show up to your events. You stop waiting for someone to notice your accomplishments. You just put your head down and handle your business because nobody else will.