My father, Harrison Sinclair, had expanded a family fortune through a very successful corporate law practice. My mother, Meredith, belonged to the world of charity galas and invisible webs of social influence.
My brother Dominic was the firstborn son and the future success story of the dynasty. My younger sister Penny was the beautiful baby of the family whose smallest preferences were treated with the significance of law.
I was the middle child, which in our house meant becoming the control group in a long experiment about worth. It meant watching my parents say yes to my siblings so quickly that the generosity felt elegant.
Dominic was the golden child whose mistakes were always reframed as ambitious leadership experiments. If he wanted something, my parents only asked what would help him succeed in the long run.
Penny occupied a different category because she was adored and protected from any form of disappointment. Her wants arrived wrapped in softness, and the whole household moved to anticipate her needs before she even spoke them.
Then there was me, the child who was always described as useful and mature. Those words sound like compliments until you realize they are used to explain why one child must bear more than the others.
I was the one who could handle disappointment and manage my own problems without making a scene. Because I had learned how to contain myself, I was continually given more reasons to do exactly that.
When Dominic wanted to attend an elite boarding school in New Hampshire, my parents treated the tuition figures as noble investments. They drove him there like a prince being installed in his proper future while writing the checks without hesitation.
When Penny became interested in horseback riding, my mother described it as a graceful passion. Within months, Penny had a custom trainer and expensive boots that cost more than most people make in a month.
When I asked to attend a modest art camp in Phoenix, my father looked over his newspaper and told me that money does not grow on trees. My mother followed with a moral lecture about how I needed to learn the value of hard work.
“Not everything should just be handed to you because you want it, Francesca,” she said with a soft and approving smile. I spent that summer working at a local coffee shop and waking up before dawn to earn enough for basic art supplies.