I’m sitting in my room right now and the smell of the fried fish is still stuck in my hair. My parents spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen making my brother’s FAVORITE meal because he finally got a C-minus in math. A C-minus. He’s 16 and acts like he just won a Nobel Prize because he didn't fail for once. My scholarship letter came in the mail three days ago. Full ride to a top university. I left it on the kitchen island right next to the rice cooker. My dad used it as a coaster for his tea. Dinner was loud. Everyone laughing, clinking glasses, calling him "the man of the house" like he's actually done something. My mom kept piling extra meat on his plate like he’s some kind of hero. I sat there and didn't say a word. I kept waiting for someone to mention the letter. To mention ME. Nothing. Every time I tried to open my mouth, my auntie would cut me off to talk about how her son is doing "so well" in soccer. It’s like I’m a GHOST at my own table. Just a body taking up space to serve the food. They expect the world from me because I’m the eldest daughter. My excellence is just the BASELINE. It's the floor, not the ceiling. If I get an A, nobody bats an eye because that's just what I'm supposed to do for the family. If my brother manages to scrape by with a passing grade, it’s a miracle. I’ve spent four years killing myself for this. No parties. No sleep. Just pure, unadulterated STRESS. And for what? To be a footnote in his big night? The cognitive dissonance is actually making my head spin. I finally pointed at the envelope—it's literally stained with a brown ring from the tea now—and asked my dad if he saw the amount. The full tuition. He didn't even look at the paper. He just shrugged and said "You are a smart girl, we knew this" and then went back to promising my brother those new Nikes. A reward for a C-minus. I’ve never seen a reward in my life. I don’t want shoes. I wanted them to look at me and actually SEE what I've done. I'm not just a machine that produces grades. So now I’m here. 2am and I’m packing a bag. Not to leave—not yet—but just to feel like I’m GOING somewhere. This house feels like a coffin. They think they’ve succeeded because they raised a "good" girl who stays quiet, but they have no idea who I am. I’m taking that scholarship and I’m disappearing. I’m going to go to school and I’m never coming back for a single dinner. They can have their favorite son and their empty house. I am DONE being the backdrop for his mediocrity.