Skipped Thanksgiving Because of My Family's Favoritism

The counselor was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the call.

"I'm still here. Every program each semester will only accept two students, and one of them has withdrawn due to family objections."

"Are you sure you want to sign up? The program duration is a year."

"I'm sure."

The counselor instructed me to fill out the form at the office the next morning, and to bring along my results and identification documents.

After hanging up, I stared at my phone screen, feeling like laughing. I had lived almost 20 years, and this was the first time I was making my own decision.

"What did you sign up for?" My roommate, Charlie, leaned in close to look at my phone. I locked the screen right away and flipped it over before placing it on the table.

"Nothing. I was just asking about the university's financial aid program."

"Oh." Charlie did not ask further questions, but noticed my phone screen lit up. He sighed. "Are you answering trivia again? I've never seen anyone so obsessed with trivia. You are on that app day and night. Are you addicted to it?"

I looked down without answering. I was not addicted to anything.

This was my family rule. When I started high school, my family set a strict rule for us. We had to earn our allowances by answering trivia questions. There were ten questions, and every question was worth $2.

The trivia was divided into four levels: Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced, and Expert.

Over the past seven years, I have never stopped answering trivia questions since high school. If I did not answer any questions, I would not have money to feed myself.

I opened the app and saw bright red words flashing in the middle of the main page. [Your difficulty level today is Expert Level.]

The first question was about Riemannian geometry, and it asked about the existence and uniqueness of geodesics on compact manifolds.

I stared at the string of differential symbols, unable to understand the question at all.

The second question was on advanced quantum mechanics. It asked about estimating the ground-state energy of a hydrogen atom using the variational method, and the third question was about a number theory lemma, which was something so niche that I had never even heard of it before this.

Every question I had was graduate-student level.

My younger brother, Ezra Livingston, started texting in our family chat group. [Thanks, Edith! All of my questions today were super easy! I got full marks!]

His text was followed by a screenshot of all his correct answers, which he completed in three minutes. This was followed by a screenshot sent by my father, Norm Livingston.

It was a screenshot of a first-class flight ticket worth $1,000 with a remark stating, [Family Reunion].

My older sister, Edith Livingston, replied, [I made sure that you got the Beginner Level for today's trivia.]

Norm added, [You're spoiling him.]

It upset me to see that conversation.

Ezra and I were twin brothers, but he would always get Beginner Level for his trivia, while I would always get Expert Level. From my father's perspective, Edith was just being a loving sister for making it easy for Ezra.

No one ever considered the fact that I was the one drowning in life while they were busy pampering him.

It had been seven years, and I had fought back before, but even my attempts to fight back had to be earned through this trivia.

I rarely had a full meal over the past two years in university. It took me everything to get three or four answers right out of ten, and I would end up getting only $6 or $8 every day.

It was enough to pay for some bread and get free water refills at the university's water fountain.

If I could not take the hunger, I would work part-time handing out flyers, tutoring students, working as a busboy at the university cafeteria, or as a delivery man.

Unlike me, Ezra was the popular boy in university and the school heartthrob. He had a driver to pick him up where he wanted to go, and his three meals a day were always delivered on time, not to mention his cupboard filled with this season's latest style.

No one knew that the boy who worked hard as a busboy in the cafeteria was his twin older brother, and Ezra would never admit to our relationship openly.

"Hey, did you hear?" Charlie leaned over and said in a low voice. "The university heartthrob, Ezra Livingston, has booked his flight home. I heard it's a first-class ticket. His family really loves him. He's good-looking and rich. What a great life he has."

Charlie said this with envy in his eyes, but all I did was smile and say nothing.

Ezra had a first-class flight ticket home, but all I had was the cheapest train ticket worth about $50 that my father refused to pay for me because I had gotten one wrong answer for my trivia.