In many ways Gabe and I are opposites, and because of that I shouldered my parents’ hopes while he floated above the fray. My brother was popular in school, outgoing, a star athlete—regionally ranked in tennis as a junior. He didn’t work too hard in class, earned mostly B’s, got into a small liberal arts college in Connecticut. Upon graduation one of his frat brothers helped him get a job selling medical devices. He ended up being really, really good at it. He’s a managing director now. Also, a stellar golfer.
And to this day, my dad has never acknowledged Gabe’s success. He views his son as this relaxed, carefree guy who happens into situations and somehow comes out on top. My mom used to say that Gabe was more lucky than gifted—yes, to his face, that’s the Asian way. But you don’t get one promotion after another without working for it, even if it’s (as Dad would put it) only sales.
Once when I was in middle school, my dad berated me for getting a B-plus on a math midterm, and I shouted, Why don’t you ever get on Gabe?
It was the first time I’d ever talked back to him and he shot my mom a dark look before spitting out, Because he isn’t as smart as you, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a compliment.
Gabe must have been at tennis practice, but I scoured the room to make sure.
Dad softened his tone. Everyone has different talents. Yours is school. Don’t waste it.
The adrenaline rush from standing up to him made me combative. I said, It’s not like you yell at Gabe when he loses a match.
Tennis? Dad said, his voice dripping scorn. Tennis is a game, a hobby. Your brother is no Michael Chang, all right? He’ll be lucky to play D-3.
This scathing, clear-eyed assessment shut me up. For the rest of the semester, I worked my butt off to make up for that B-plus, and, in the end, I got my dad his A.
What’s that, Detective? Yes, the phrasing of that struck me, too. I got my dad his A. But that’s how I’ve always felt—like I was living my life for someone else. First my parents, then Oli, and now Winnie. In fact, I was so used to moving on autopilot toward some externally defined goal that I never stopped to consider where I wanted to go in the first place.
Look, I’m thirty-seven years old and, I’m sure we can all agree, way past being able to credibly blame my parents for who I am today. But that, I think, is the point. I’d never really grown up. I was still that nerdy teenager who dared not dream her own dreams, who craved approval from whoever would offer it.
Given Dad’s dim view of Gabe, you may be wondering how he ended up moving to Chicago to live near his son. The decision astounded me, too; I hadn’t realized the sale of the house was up for discussion—nor how much I’d missed in the time I’d been working for Winnie.
Long story short, Dad’s decision was the result of a monthslong campaign waged by Gabe and his wife, Priya. Once they’d discovered that Dad’s chronic knee and hip pains—the result of decades of road running—had intensified, forcing him to give up his daily walks, they decided to take action. Priya found a nice new condo building two L stops away from their town house, next to a gym with a pool Dad could use instead of pounding down the sidewalk. She seeded their conversations with only slightly embellished descriptions of the amenities, making sure to include how much she and my brother wanted my dad to be around to speak Mandarin to soon-to-be-born Ajay and his future siblings, while also promising that they would never coerce him into babysitting. When Gabe and Priya flew out to see Dad on the anniversary of Mom’s death, they made a final push, brandishing evidence from Gabe’s Realtor friend that demonstrated the unit was a good buy and would definitely appreciate in value.
Hearing all this filled me with guilt, yes, but also envy. My warm, plucky sister-in-law had started calling my parents Mom and Dad the day Gabe proposed. Oli, on the other hand, had grumbled when I’d informed him, shortly after the funeral, that I’d hired my dad a housekeeper and planned to pay for it, too.
And Dad said yes? I asked Gabe over the phone. Just like that?
My brother paused. I mean, it took months to convince him, but, yeah, eventually, he said yes.
I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, I said.
Yeah, yeah, he said. Ava’s working, nothing new.
You’ve done so much for Dad since Mom died. I’m sorry I haven’t helped.
Looking back, I hear the plea in my voice. Ask me, I’m saying. Ask me why I’m working so much. Ask me what I’m doing. Ask me what’s wrong.
Thank god he didn’t.
No worries, Gabe said. There’s plenty of time for you to take a turn.
As I’ve already shown, Detective, skirting conflict is the Wong family religion.
The following day, an email from a fashion journalist appeared in my personal account. She’d come across our eBay store and was so impressed by the inventory that she wanted to interview me. I didn’t know how she’d tracked me down, given that I’d paid a service to scrub all personal information off the internet. I deleted the message without responding and checked the online forums.
Overnight, it seemed, our eBay store had risen in prominence, spurred by handbag fanatics who raved about our Bottega Veneta Pouches and Dior Book Totes and Valentino Rockstud bags. The forums teemed with questions about how we managed to procure the latest styles so quickly. Users speculated that our store traded in factory overruns or even stolen goods. (By the way, Detective, overruns are a myth. As I’ve already mentioned, the brands demand that every millimeter of raw material be accounted for—no factory is running off ten extra bags without Saint Laurent immediately figuring it out.)
A text from Winnie arrived, crowing about yet another style that had sold out. I wanted to hurl my phone on the ground. Why couldn’t she see the problem bubbling beneath the surface? She’d built this business on anonymity; this was way too much publicity, too much buzz.
In the midst of all this, my brother and sister-in-law arrived from Chicago—Priya, thirty-six weeks pregnant and glowing; Gabe, tanned and smiling beneath a Roger Federer baseball cap.
My brother and I spent the afternoon packing things in boxes and trying to convince Dad to sit in front of the television and rest his creaky joints. Meanwhile Priya and Henri dug holes in the backyard with old spatulas, since the new owners were going to tear up the lawn anyway.
How’s Oli? Gabe asked. Still working like a maniac?
Always and forever.
The question would have annoyed Oli. Why is that the only thing your brother ever asks? he’d say, to which I’d explain that Gabe didn’t really know what his job entailed (and didn’t really care). Oli found Gabe and Priya conventional and unambitious, basic. But I didn’t see it that way. To me, their most striking quality was their utter contentment with what they had. They weren’t strivers, and it seemed a wonderful way to be.
After we’d packed up the last of the study, Gabe and I stood by the window, watching Priya and Henri traipse around the backyard in search of treasure.
How much maternity leave does she get? I asked.
Three months, and she’s taking it all and quitting right after.
No! I said.
Yes!
Down below, Priya and Henri settled on a pair of gardening stools and filled a yellow pail with dirt.
Good for her. She earned that leave. I couldn’t help adding, But maybe she shouldn’t burn all those bridges. In case she ever needs a reference.
Gabe playfully flicked my forehead, which infuriated me as much now as it had when I was a kid. I flicked him on the cheekbone, and he twisted my arm behind my back.
Ow, I said.
He laughed and let go. Thanks for the advice, nerd, but she’s never going back. Her lifelong goal is to be a stay-at-home mom.
Priya called Henri’s attention to a butterfly flitting around the bushes, and he squealed and gave chase, flapping his spatula about his head.
They really are best buds, said Gabe.
I didn’t answer, distracted by the chiming of my phone. I reached into my pocket. Another email from that same journalist, informing me that if I didn’t agree to talk to her, she would go ahead and write the article outing me anyway. This time I forwarded the email to Winnie with the subject heading: PROBLEM!!!
What are you working on that’s so urgent? Gabe asked. You haven’t stopped checking your phone.