The first time my mother made it clear that I mattered less than my brother, she smiled as casually as if she were talking about the weather.

The second time, she pushed three property deeds across the dining table.

“Daughters marry out. Daniel carries our name.”

I stared down at the documents.

Three houses.

The red-brick duplex my grandfather had built.

The lake house my father renovated partly with money I had quietly loaned him.

And the downtown townhouse I had spent two years managing, repairing, and refinancing while Daniel jumped from one “business opportunity” to another—and from one expensive girlfriend to the next.