At Christmas, My Cousin Mocked My “Little Hobby”. Years Later, He…

The Aftermath of the Feast

That should have been the end of it—a fresh start, a new dynamic, perhaps even a little respect. But Derek was not designed for that; neither was Aunt Evelyn.

The mood at supper did not improve. Dessert was unusually quiet.

Derek wanted to return to familiar grounds.

“Have you ever met Elon? You should speak with him.”

Yet his voice was fragile, like someone attempting to keep their footing on a fractured sheet of ice. Aunt Evelyn, on the other hand, made a point of noting Derek’s new condo’s heated marble floors and authentic Versace tile in the bathroom.

It felt like the verbal equivalent of tossing a glitter bomb and asking for everyone to be impressed. We were not.

As people began to leave, my mother and I helped clean the dishes. She didn’t say anything, simply a slight nod that conveyed more than words.

But then, as I was bringing in the last tray from the dining room, I heard something.

“Who would hide something like that from their family?” Aunt Evelyn’s voice was shrill, muttering through clenched teeth.

“It’s false and manipulative,” Derek murmured. “He’s just trying to show off. Probably made half of it up.”

I paused behind a wall, out of sight.

“You know he used to copy my homework in middle school,” She said.

“I swear to God, Mom, this guy is a fraud.”

My hands tightened around the tray.

“He’s always been like this,” Aunt Evelyn explained, lurking in the background waiting to cause a commotion. “Look at tonight. Christmas Eve of all times. So what does he do? Drops that number in front of everyone. Everyone. It’s tasteless and pointless and I honestly don’t believe it.”

A pause.

“Should have been Derek,” She said. “He’s the one with real connections.”

That’s when I entered the room. They froze like performers caught out of character.

I did not yell. I did not accuse.

I simply looked them both in the eyes.

“I built it from nothing,” I remarked calmly. “No trust fund, no contacts, no assistance. And the only reason I didn’t say anything until today was to safeguard this.”

I motioned around the room. “This illusion of family.”

Derek opened his mouth, but I continued.

“I figured if I stayed quiet long enough, you’d stop seeing me as the poor kid in the corner. But now I understand it never was about me. It was about keeping Derek on his pedestal.”

Aunt Evelyn straightened. “Evan, that’s not fair.”

“No,” I replied. “What isn’t fair is witnessing my mother suffer through 18 years of your contempt, listening to you mock our clothes, occupations, and lives while claiming it’s all in good fun. That ends tonight.”

I turned to leave, but Derek murmured. “Still sounds like a fluke.”

I paused. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “Anyone can be lucky. Doesn’t make you unique.”

I stared at him. He really gazed.

Then I saw it: the crack, the uneasiness behind all the glitz. Because the truth was he had to think it was luck.

He had to, otherwise he’d have to confront what I’d accomplished with nothing while he’d relied on everything.

“Tell you what,” I replied. “I will bring you to the office next week. Perhaps seeing it up close will help.”

He laughed, but it sounded hollow.

“I mean it,” I responded, moving closer. “I will even let you pitch. We are looking for interns.”

His smirk disappeared. That’s when Uncle Martin entered, drink in hand, and asked what was going on.

My mother entered straight following him. Then, as if the cosmos intended to record this moment in family history, Derek spoke.

“You know what? I’m out.”

He stormed out, grabbing his coat and slamming the door. Everyone in the living room was staring.

Aunt Evelyn then turned to my mother. “This is why we don’t mix ambition with insecurity.”

Then Uncle Martin dropped his glass to the floor and mumbled. “Unbelievable.”

Everyone was looking at us now. My mother took my hand, and in that instant, I realized we had crossed a line that could not be undone.

Rumors and Resilience

The drive home that night was peaceful, too quiet. Mom said nothing at first.

She simply glanced out the window, hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable as we drove onto the dark lanes that led back to our area. The only sounds were the car’s quiet hum and the odd crunch of leaves under the tires.

I wanted to say something—perhaps apologize or explain why I had finally spoken after so many years of silence. But part of me couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply exhausted.

I am tired of enduring, tired of holding her breath for two decades every time we walked into that McMansion as if we didn’t belong. We were tired of pretending we were simply pleased to be included.

When we eventually pulled into the driveway, she spoke so softly that I nearly missed it.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

I switched the engine off. “I know.”

She stared at me; her voice was composed but her eyes were misty. “But I’m glad you did.”

We sat for a moment longer. Then she got out and strolled into the house carrying only the pie dish she had prepared earlier that day, untouched of course.

Nobody had even looked at it, not with Aunt Evelyn’s organic, imported, hand-chipped Christmas dessert alternatives displayed like a bakery showroom. I followed her inside, locked the door, and stood in the darkened hallway for a while.

I wondered what to do with the unusual combination of fury and melancholy that had settled in my chest. It wasn’t a victory.

It was not even satisfaction. There was mourning for what I was unsure; perhaps it’s the illusion of family.

I spent years wanting to one day be one of them. I believe that achievement would bridge the divide; it turned out that it simply increased its width.

The days that followed were tense but not for the reasons I anticipated. Derek did not reach out.

Neither did Aunt Evelyn. Not even a half-hearted “let’s talk” message or a performative phone call to attempt to make things right.

Instead, the stillness was audible, purposeful, and heavy. Then came the murmurs.

It started when a cousin I hadn’t spoken to in months sent me a screenshot of a group text. One of Derek’s pals had reportedly began spreading rumors that I had fabricated my company’s valuation.

Another said I acquired false followers and bots to boost my LinkedIn visibility. Someone else stated I was being probed for fraud, but no one could say by whom.

I laughed at first, I truly did, since it was so clear. But then the rumors spread throughout my professional network.

A former coworker emailed me. “Hey man, someone passed me a strange message suggesting your company isn’t legitimate. You might wish to investigate it.”

An investor messaged me. “Just wanted to confirm is everything above board? We are hearing some buzz.”

That was when the laughter stopped. I started an internal review.

Legal checked all of our papers three times. PR prepared a proper reaction in case anything made the news.

It did not, but the effort required simply to stay ahead of a falsehood was tiring. Even without evidence, I knew where it was coming from.

The timing, wording, and tone all screamed Derek. He may not have typed the words personally, but I had no doubt he gave someone permission to smear me silently from the shadows.

The issue is growing up around guys like Derek teaches you how they function. They do not confront; they corrode slowly and discreetly, just enough to create doubt and make you appear unstable or untrustworthy without ever getting their hands filthy.

For a while, it worked. We lost a significant cooperation agreement we had been cultivating.

A customer for about a year abruptly stopped responding. There was no explanation or follow-up; it was just radio silence.

That was the moment I snapped. I remember sitting alone in my actual apartment, which no one in the family had ever seen, with the city lights shining through the window and my laptop open displaying a blank email draft.

I stared at it for over an hour. Should I go public?

Should I call him out? Do I release our financials showing the numbers and names?

But deep inside I knew something else. That is what he would do; he’d get loud, sloppy, and create a scene.

But I was not him. I was something else.

So I deleted the document and started over. Not the company; despite the noise, we remained solid.

But what about me? My thinking, my sense of worth?

I took a break from social media and deleted the LinkedIn app off my phone. I stopped refreshing emails as if they were the key to my sanity.

I took lengthy walks without my earplugs and reunited with old mentors, not to network, but to simply talk. I spent more time with my mother, helped her in her garden, and made supper without checking Slack every 10 minutes.

Slowly I discovered the version of myself that I liked, not the one seeking approval, not the one quietly competing with a cousin who never played fairly. It’s just me.

I still ran the corporation, of course, but I stopped allowing it to define me. I began working on a new product in secret, something smaller and more personal.

It was a platform that allows first-generation entrepreneurs to access resources and coaching without having to pay thousands of dollars for webinars or boot camps. I didn’t announce it.

I did not raise money. I simply constructed it, nights, weekends, in between meetings, silently, as if planting seeds that no one else can see.

One day, my mother came into my home office with two mugs of tea and observed. “You look lighter.”

I looked up from my laptop. “Lighter?”

She nodded. “Like you’re not carrying so much.”

I thought about it. “Maybe I’m just carrying different things now.”

She smiled. “Good. Allow Derek to bear the rest.”

The problem is I hadn’t said his name since that night. She had never done so.

It was as if we both knew without saying it that he no longer had room in our minds. But life had other intentions.