Our prom required every sibling to bring a handmade gift onstage — mine has Down Syndrome, and he'd been working on it for five months: "Sorry it's the only thing I have to give you."
Our school has one prom tradition. Every senior gets walked in by a sibling, and the sibling carries a special gift onstage. Something they made, that's supposed to say who you actually are.
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I need to explain what I was afraid of, because it wasn't him.
It was the tradition.
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Priya's sister goes to Parsons and painted her a full portrait, framed and everything. Julian works weekends down at the marina and had been buying pieces for a shadow box since Christmas, small brass fittings and polished stones he'd been saving up for.
Half the siblings in that lineup had jobs, and budgets, and four years of art class behind them.
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Teddy has none of that. Not because of anything he did.
And there's no version of that stage where a room full of eighteen-year-olds isn't quietly, instinctively comparing.
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So I didn't want him standing up there getting measured against some kid from Parsons with a full portfolio and a scholarship interview coming up. I wanted him at a table with Mom instead, clapping, having a genuinely good night without any of that particular pressure sitting on his shoulders.
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By February, he was out in the garage every single day after school, door pulled down all the way. Mom kept the key on her own keyring after the first week, refusing to explain why even when I asked directly.
I barely saw him for months.
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