At Christmas, My Cousin Mocked My “Little Hobby”. Years Later, He…
The Golden Child of the Family
At Christmas, my cousin mocked my little hobby. Years later, he tried to copy my $28 million company. I sued him; he turned pale and left.
If you ever get to meet my cousin Derek, you’ll probably love him. You’ll believe you do until he speaks.
He’s the type of man that goes into a room like he owns it, drops names like loose change, and always finds himself in the spotlight even if no one invited him. Growing up, he was that child, the one who had the latest iPhone before the rest of us knew there was a new model on the way.
He was the one who was never grounded because he had potential. My faults were due to bad judgment, but his were due to youthful ambition. Yeah, that type of relative.
My name is Evan. I’m 34 now, but it all started when I was about 8 years old, sitting at the children’s Christmas table on Christmas Eve listening to Derek talk about his new go-kart which his father had bought him just because.
I recall how the mold cranberry glaze on my dish looked like blood when I stabbed it too hard with my plastic fork. I despised how everyone chuckled as he rattled off everything he’d received that month as if it were some kind of royal decree.
The Crown Prince and the Outcast
But I didn’t say anything, not then. Derek was my mother’s older sister’s soul child, so in our extended family, he was almost the crown prince.
Aunt Evelyn was one of those suburban matriarchs who dressed as if every event were a charity gala and spoke with the slow, deliberate cadence of someone used to having people hang on her every word. She married Uncle Martin, a lawyer with a slickness that would make a snake uncomfortable.
They combined to create Derek, the golden child. Meanwhile, my mother raised me alone since my father died before I was born.
We did not have much. Hand-me-downs, library books, and secondhand aspirations were basically our currency, but we had grit and we had one another.
Even so, every Christmas family gathering served as a reminder that we were barely tolerated like guests who overstayed their welcome. Aunt Evelyn would constantly forget to notify us about the Christmas clothing theme.
Uncle Martin made a few comments about how difficult it must be to live on a single income. Derek mastered the art of the backhanded praise by middle school.
“Oh, cool shoes, Evan. Are they vintage?”
By high school, the distance between us had grown to be more than simply financial; it was everything. He captained the debate squad.
When he reached 17, his parents got him a beautiful new BMW. By his sophomore year, he already had a college admissions coach.
Meanwhile, I was flipping burgers after school to raise money for a rusted 2003 Corolla I discovered in a neighbor’s yard. I didn’t loathe him completely; it was more complex than that.
I despised what he represented, what he was handed, and what I had to fight tooth and nail for. Christmas Eve became a time of perseverance.
My mother would prepare holiday baked casseroles and her famous Christmas pecan spice pie. She would dress up in her best Target sweater and smile through the passive-aggressive comments.
I used to ask her why we kept going.
“Because family is family and sometimes turning up is the best retribution.” She’d just respond.
A Decade of Secret Ambition
I didn’t comprehend that at the time. I do now.
However, on this particular Christmas Eve last year, everything changed. But first, let me explain how I spent the last decade.
While Derek attended an Ivy League institution, amassed LinkedIn connections like Pokémon cards, and began consulting for his father’s acquaintances, I kept my head down. I did not share much on social media.
I didn’t attend reunions. I didn’t tell anyone other than my mother what I was working on.
From the outside, I appeared to be a quiet relative who most likely worked in information technology. Nobody asked; nobody cared.
Behind the scenes, I had been working very hard. I taught myself coding in college since I couldn’t afford additional classes.
I freelanced as if my life depended on it. I created contacts, launched products, failed, relaunched, failed again, and continued on.
At 26, I founded my own software firm. I raised initial capital by pitching at open mic evenings and survived on ramen and grit.
After years of almost continual rejection and barely sleeping, I finally got a break, then another, and another. It snowballed.
By the time I was 31, I had four teams spread over three continents, a CTO I trusted like a brother, and a valuation of roughly $28 million. But I still didn’t say anything to the family.
It was not about hiding; it was about peace. Except that peace was never an option with Derek involved.
The Christmas Dinner at the McMansion
This year’s Christmas dinner was at Aunt Evelyn’s McMansion as usual. Derek had the same granite countertops, meticulously cleaned silverware, and arrogant smirk as he leaned against the kitchen island whirling a pricey Pinot like he was the host of some reality show about unpleasant relatives.
“Oh hey Evan,” He remarked as I stepped in as if I had strolled in from the street. “Are you still living in the city doing that tiny technical thing?”
I smiled. “Yeah, still doing it.”
“Huh, good on you man. Persistence is crucial even if the pay isn’t great. You’re your own boss, right?” He remarked.
I nodded. He smirked.
We exchanged small chat. Well, he spoke, and I listened to him talk about his new Audi, his Christmas vacation in the mountains, and the girl he was dating who modeled part-time but not in the cheap Instagram way.
I didn’t say much and let him ramble. He always liked the sound of his own voice.
He would occasionally make comments that landed like mosquito bites—annoying, simple to disregard, but stacking up quickly. Aunt Evelyn summoned everyone to the table.
The seating was, as usual, oddly purposeful. Derek sits at the head of the table with Aunt Evelyn on his right.
My mother and I sat off to the side like ornamental guests. We passed the dishes, said Grace, and engaged in polite conversation.
