I did something this week that’s been eating at me. I feel like a hypocrite, plain and simple, and it’s a feeling I haven’t really wrestled with since... well, since I came back from overseas, honestly. It’s that knot in your gut, the one that tells you you’re out of line, but you just keep marching anyway. I went over to the Miller’s house, two doors down, to congratulate their son, Kevin, for getting into State University. It’s a good school, one of the best for engineering, and he really earned it. He’s a bright kid, always has been, and he works hard. All of that is true. But the real truth is, my own kid, David, got his rejection letter from State University last month. He didn’t say much about it, just crumpled the envelope and tossed it in the trash. I saw him do it, though. I saw his face. It was that look, the one where you try to act tough but you’re just… defeated. Like when you’ve trained for something your whole life, put in all the hours, and then you just… fall short. He’d talked about State University since he was fourteen, since Kevin first mentioned he was aiming for it. Funny how that works, isn’t it? One kid sets the bar, the other tries to reach it. So when Mrs. Miller called me up, practically bursting with pride, asking if I’d heard the news about Kevin, I just... went through the motions. "That's wonderful," I said, trying to sound genuinely enthusiastic. "He really deserves it." And he does, he truly does. But I felt this bitterness rise up inside me, like bile. It wasn’t aimed at Kevin, not really. More at the unfairness of it all, I suppose. Or maybe just at myself, for not having a kid who could get into a place like that. Not a place that *I* could get into, anyway. I barely finished high school before enlisting. Different world back then. Different expectations. I walked over there with a bottle of their favorite sparkling cider, a small gesture, you know. Kevin opened the door, all smiles and awkward teenage gratitude. He shook my hand, firm grip for a kid his age. “Thanks, Mr. Henderson,” he said, looking at the ground a bit, but you could tell he was beaming inside. Mrs. Miller came out then, wiping her hands on a dish towel, practically vibrating with happiness. “Isn’t it just incredible?” she kept saying. And I just stood there, smiling, nodding, saying all the right things. Telling them how proud David and I were of Kevin. Which was a lie. A half-lie, at least. David didn’t even know I was going over there. He was holed up in his room, probably playing video games, trying to forget about his own letter. The whole time I was there, maybe twenty minutes, I kept thinking about David. About the late nights he spent studying, the tutoring sessions, the essay revisions. He worked hard, he really did. Maybe not as effortlessly as Kevin, maybe not with the same natural knack for numbers, but he applied himself. I tried to tell myself that State University wasn’t the be-all and end-all, that there were other good schools, other paths. But it still felt like a punch to the gut every time Mrs. Miller said "State." It was like a constant reminder of what David didn't get. What *we* didn't get. And that’s the part that really gnaws at me. The “we.” I always pushed David to aim high, to do better than I did. I wanted him to have opportunities I never had, to go to college, to have a civilian life that felt… easier. Less complicated. I wanted him to have a different legacy. And now, seeing Kevin reach that milestone, it just… it makes me feel like I failed David somehow. Not that I didn't support him, or that I didn't love him. But maybe I didn't prepare him enough. Maybe I didn't give him the right tools. Or maybe I just expected too much. I came home, and David was still in his room. I didn’t tell him where I’d been. I just went into the kitchen, got myself a glass of water, and stood there looking out the window at the Miller’s house. Their lights were on, warm and inviting, and I could just picture them, still celebrating. I felt like a coward for not being honest with them, for not telling them about David. But what would I have said? “My kid didn’t get in, so your kid’s success stings a little?” No, you don’t do that. You just swallow it. It’s been a couple of days now, and the feeling hasn't gone away. That hollow ache in my chest. I keep replaying the conversation, the smiles, my fake enthusiasm. I know I should feel happy for Kevin. I genuinely like the kid. But the envy is a thick, ugly thing, clinging to me. And the shame of feeling that way, of congratulating someone else’s child while my own is hurting… it’s a heavy burden to carry. I just wish I knew how to shake it off. Or how to make it right for David. It feels like another one of those battles where you just don't know which way is up anymore.