She’s a senior specialty pharmaceutical sales rep, oncology drugs. She makes 180,000 a year. She drives an Audi Q5. She lives in a Lincoln Park condo with exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows. Her Instagram has 250,000 followers. She posts about her life, her outfits, her brunches, her boyfriend, her bonuses.
I make 68,000 a year. I drive a paid-off 2019 Honda Civic. I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Ravenswood with Sam. Rent is 1,650 a month. My Instagram has 300 followers, mostly co-workers and high school friends. I post approximately twice a year.
At family dinners, the conversation always bends toward Ashley, her latest sales quarter, her new handbag, her weekend in Michigan. Our parents lean in when she talks. They ask follow-up questions. They beam.
When I talk about work, my mother says, “That sounds hard, honey.”
And then someone changes the subject.
It’s been this way for years.
My 16th birthday, March 2009. My parents gave me a car, a 2004 Honda Accord. Fifteen years old, 130,000 miles, manual transmission. The check engine light was on. My father handed me the keys.
“It’ll teach you responsibility. You’ll have to maintain it yourself.”
I said, “Thank you.” I meant it. I needed a car to get to my part-time job at the nursing home, to get to school, to drive myself places because no one else would.
Ashley’s 16th birthday was 11 months later. February 2010, she got a 2010 Volkswagen Jetta, brand new, automatic, heated seats, satellite radio. My parents co-signed the loan, but they made the down payment, $4,500.
At her birthday dinner, my father raised his glass. “To Ashley, our little girl is growing up. We’re so proud of the young woman you’re becoming.”
No one had made a toast at mine.
College graduation, May 2015. I walked across the stage at the University of Illinois Chicago, Bachelor of Science in Nursing. I’d worked 20 hours a week throughout school. Took out loans for the rest. Graduated with $38,000 in debt.
My parents came to the ceremony, took photos, took me to dinner at Olive Garden.
“We’re proud of you,” my mother said. “Nursing is such a stable career.”
Stable.
That word again.
Ashley graduated a year later, May 2016. Communications degree, DePaul University. She’d lived in a campus apartment. My parents paid $32,000 a year. Four years, $128,000 total.
They threw her a graduation party, backyard, catered food, 70 people, a banner that said, “Congratulations, Ashley.”
She graduated debt-free.
At the party, I overheard my mother talking to her friend. “Ashley’s already had three job offers,” she said. “I always knew she’d do well. She’s so driven.”
I was standing 10 feet away, holding a plate of pasta salad, wearing my scrubs because I’d come straight from a shift. My mother didn’t look at me.
