I grew up in a small town in the Midwest, the kind of place where everyone knew which kid belonged to which family and gossip traveled faster than the school bus. My dad, Franklin Donovan, was a retired soldier who believed his house was just another extension of the barracks. My mom, Joanne, was the opposite gentle, patient, and the only reason our home didn’t feel like a permanent inspection line.
And then there was Valerie, my older sister, the golden child who could do no wrong. If Valerie brought home a trophy from a track meet, Dad made sure it sat in the living room for everyone to see. If I brought home an A in math, he’d glance at it like it was a receipt and mutter, “That’s what you’re supposed to do.” Valerie was tall, strong, loud, and always the center of attention.
I was quiet, short for my age, and apparently invisible unless someone needed to make a comparison. At family dinners, Dad would go on about how Valerie had leadership qualities. While I was just responsible, responsible in his tone didn’t mean reliable, it meant boring. Valerie didn’t waste a second cashing in on it either.
She’d smirk across the table and say things like, “Maybe Ry can organize the napkins since she loves details so much.” Dad would laugh. Mom would cut her eyes at him, but never call him out. She’d change the subject and later when it was just me helping with dishes, she’d squeeze my shoulder and say, “Being steady counts more than being loud.”
By the time Valerie was old enough to join the Army National Guard, the whole town was cheering her on. Dad threw her a sendoff barbecue complete with a giant banner strung across the yard that said, “Our hero.” People showed up with potato salad and lawn chairs. When Valerie came back from her short deployment overseas, folks acted like she’d won the war on her own.
She’d stroll into the local diner and people would stand up to shake her hand. Meanwhile, I was just Rey, the little sister, the quiet one, the one who, in my father’s eyes, never measured up. He liked to introduce us with, “This is Valerie, my soldier, and this is Rey. She reads a lot.” He thought it was funny. It wasn’t.
The lowest point for me came one Thanksgiving when relatives packed the house and dad decided to toast Valerie. He raised his glass and said, “To Valerie, who made us proud by serving, and to Ry who, well, maybe one day she’ll figure out what she’s good at.” Everyone chuckled, thinking it was light-hearted. I sat there with a fake smile plastered on my face, gripping my fork so tight it left an imprint in my palm.
Valerie never missed a chance to rub it in. She’d lean over and whisper, “Don’t take it personal, Rey. Some of us are just built for more.” Her smirk burned into my memory that night. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t throw the fork. I didn’t yell back. But inside, I promised myself I’d prove every single one of them wrong.
My mom was the only one who believed in me, though she never went against Dad openly. When I told her I was thinking about applying to the Naval Academy, she smiled in a way that said she knew this was coming. “If anyone can handle it, you can,” she told me quietly in the kitchen. “Not because you’re like Valerie, because you’re not.” That stuck with me.
When dad overheard, he laughed. “The Navy? Ray, they’ll eat you alive. You’ll quit by the first month. Don’t embarrass yourself.” Valerie piled on. “You’ll be crying for mom after the first push-up.” That night, I filled out the application under the glow of a desk lamp while they sat in the living room watching TV. I wasn’t going to let them dictate who I was anymore.
Even before Annapolis, the comparisons didn’t stop. Valerie strutted around town in her guard uniform, medals pinned proudly while I was the kid bagging groceries for extra money. People would pat her on the back and glance at me with polite pity. My dad ate it up. He’d sit at the diner and tell people Valerie saved lives in uniform. If someone asked about me, he’d shrug. “Rey’s studying or something.”
Mom kept me grounded. She’d slide notes into my lunch bag when I was in high school. Short quotes, reminders that I mattered. Sometimes they were silly jokes, sometimes pieces of poems. “Don’t run from storms, learn to fly through them,” one said. I didn’t understand it fully then, but it would become something I carried for years.
The worst public humiliation came at a family reunion when I was 17. Valerie was already in uniform and people gathered around her asking questions about the guard. Someone turned to me and asked, “So, Rey, what about you? Planning to follow in your sister’s footsteps?” Before I could answer, Valerie laughed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Generals don’t waste time on girls like Rey. She’d get lost on the way to basic.”
The crowd chuckled nervously, waiting to see if Dad would correct her. He didn’t. He laughed, too. That moment cut deeper than anything before. I could see relatives trying to look away, pretending it was all harmless fun, but it wasn’t.
That night, I locked myself in my room and stared at the Naval Academy application packet. Valerie thought she’d won. Dad thought I was just a background character in Valerie’s story. I knew then I’d have to burn through every ounce of doubt, every sneer, every joke they threw at me. I didn’t yell. I didn’t storm out. I started building the version of myself that no one expected.
If my sister was the family’s golden soldier, I was going to be the shadow they never saw coming. The night after that reunion, I grabbed a pen and filled out every line of the Naval Academy application like I was carving it into stone. My hands shook, not from fear, but from the thought of my dad’s face when he found out.
I didn’t ask for his approval, and I sure as hell didn’t tell Valerie. When the acceptance letter came months later, I opened it alone in the kitchen. The words “appointed to the United States Naval Academy” sat at the top and I felt my chest tighten. I wasn’t smiling. I was steady the way mom always told me to be.