In the house where the walls whisper secrets,

Where the laughter of siblings echoes like a hymn,

Three souls danced to the rhythm of their truth,

But the fourth, the golden child, the shining gem,

Bore the crown of love, unearned, unasked,

A hero in the eyes of a father blinded by tradition.

They say a father’s love is unconditional,

But in our home, it came with conditions,

We were the artists, the dreamers, the rebels,

Each of us painting with colors unseen,

But he was the one who fit neatly into the frame,

A perfect picture of what was expected.

He was the quarterback, the star of the game,

Cheered on by the crowd and by Dad’s proud eyes,

While we, the misfits, the outliers, the queer,

Stood in the shadows, clapping politely,

Our love unspoken, our pride unacknowledged,

But always present, like the steady beat of a drum.

And so we danced to the tune of his victories,

Hid our scars under smiles and silence,

But at night, when the world was quiet,

We whispered our truths to each other,

Bound by more than blood,

Bound by the understanding of being unseen.

The favorite child, they called him,

But we knew the truth in our hearts,

He was the easy choice, the simple love,

A reflection of what Dad wanted to see,

But we— we were the fire, the storm, the change,

The ones who dared to live, unapologetically.

In the end, the trophies will gather dust,

And the cheers will fade into memories,

But our love, our truth, our fight,

Will stand the test of time,

For we were not the favorite,

But we were the ones who loved fiercely,

Unconditionally.