I am Callie Matthews, thirty-two years old, and I grew up as the dumb one in my family. While my sister Amelia sailed through Harvard on a full scholarship, I struggled with basic assignments. At her graduation ceremony, my father proudly announced she would inherit everything our family owned. A ten-million-dollar Manhattan mansion. A Tesla. His entire fortune.

I sat in the back row, invisible—as always—fighting back tears of humiliation. Then a stranger approached, slipped an envelope into my hands, and whispered, “Now is the time to show them who you really are.”

If you’ve ever been underestimated or overlooked, keep listening. My story might just change how you see yourself.

My earliest memories take place in our Upper East Side townhouse, a five-story brownstone with immaculate white marble floors that echoed when you walked across them. The kind of place where children were taught to be seen and not heard. Especially children like me—who might embarrass the family name.

My father, Richard Matthews, built his fortune from nothing. A tech entrepreneur who sold his first software company at twenty-eight, he worshipped at the altar of academic intelligence. His office walls were lined with diplomas, awards, and patents. He measured human worth by test scores and prestigious institutions. Nothing else registered as valuable in his world.

My mother, Diana, came from old money. The Blackwell family had been Manhattan aristocracy for generations. Diana maintained the family image with military precision, orchestrating our social calendar around galas, charity events, and dinner parties where my sister could be shown off like a prized thoroughbred. Mother was thin, elegant, and absolutely terrifying when disappointed.

And then there was Amelia.

My sister could read fluently by age three. By five, she was solving math problems meant for middle schoolers. My parents called her their little genius, their prodigy, their perfect investment. They spoke about her future as if it were a foregone conclusion: prestigious boarding school, Ivy League, then taking over my father’s business empire.

I was six when I first realized something was wrong with me. While Amelia devoured books whole, I struggled to make sense of simple sentences. The letters would jumble and dance across the page, rearranging themselves when I tried to focus. Reading time became a daily torture session.

“Daddy, I can’t understand it,” I remember saying one night, pushing away my homework in frustration.

“Stop being dramatic, Callie,” my father replied without looking up from his newspaper. “Your sister was reading chapter books at your age.”

Mother sighed dramatically. “Perhaps she just isn’t applying herself. Amelia never had these problems.”

That became the refrain of my childhood.

Amelia never had these problems.

My parents hired elite tutors for my sister—even though she hardly needed them. They enrolled her in advanced programs, summer academic camps, and private coaching for her already brilliant mind. Meanwhile, I was left to muddle through on my own. Each failed quiz was confirmation of what they already believed: that I simply wasn’t trying hard enough.

Family dinners were the worst. Father would quiz us both on current events, history, science—anything he deemed important knowledge. Amelia always had the right answers, delivered with confidence that earned approving nods. When it was my turn, the silence after my hesitant, often incorrect responses was deafening.

The only person in our household who showed me genuine kindness was Maria, our housekeeper. She would find me hiding in the laundry room after particularly brutal family dinners, crying quietly where no one could see.

“Not everyone learns the same way, miquita,” she would tell me, stroking my hair. “Some of the smartest people I know never did well in school.”

I didn’t believe her then. But she was the first person who suggested I might not be stupid—just different.

Even as a child, I noticed things my family didn’t. I could tell when guests at Mother’s parties were uncomfortable by the smallest shifts in their posture. I could rearrange furniture to make rooms feel more welcoming. I could talk easily with anyone—from the doorman to my father’s business associates—making them feel heard and valued.

But these skills weren’t measurable by tests, so they didn’t count.

Every summer, we vacationed in Martha’s Vineyard, staying in a sprawling beach house where my parents hosted elaborate dinner parties. These gatherings inevitably turned into showcases for Amelia’s achievements. She won the national spelling bee. She completed a college-level physics course. She was invited to a special program at MIT—despite being only twelve.

I became expert at making myself scarce during these events, exploring the beach alone or hiding in the boathouse with a sketchpad—the one place I found peace.

Christmas mornings told the same story. Amelia would unwrap microscopes, advanced chemistry sets, rare books on quantum physics. I received pretty dresses, jewelry, and other ornamental things befitting a girl who was clearly destined to marry well, since she would never achieve anything substantial on her own merits.

By the time I was ten, I had absorbed the family narrative completely. Amelia was the smart one—the worthy investment. I was the disappointment. The burden to be managed.

This wasn’t something my parents said outright. They were too well-bred for such vulgarity. Instead, it was communicated through sighs, exchanged glances, and conversations that stopped when I entered a room.

The damage was quiet, but absolute. I learned to expect nothing. To shrink myself. To apologize for taking up space in my own home. While Amelia soared, I disappeared a little more each day.

Elementary school was a daily exercise in humiliation. While other kids progressed through reading levels, I stayed stuck, struggling with the same basic texts month after month. Math was no better—equations made no sense to me, the numbers seemed to blur and shift the moment I tried to concentrate. My report cards were a parade of Cs and Ds, occasionally punctuated by kind but empty comments like “creative thinker” or “socially gifted,” which my parents dismissed as teacher charity.

In fourth grade, Mrs. Langley, a kind-eyed woman with salt-and-pepper hair, requested a meeting with my parents.

“I believe Callie might have some learning differences that are holding her back,” she explained carefully. “With proper testing and accommodations, she could thrive. She’s incredibly bright in ways traditional education doesn’t always recognize.”

My father scoffed, his expression a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.

“We’re not interested in excuses for mediocrity, Mrs. Langley. The problem is effort, not ability. Her sister manages to excel without special treatment.”

My mother nodded, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her coat. “Perhaps if she spent less time daydreaming and more time studying, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Mrs. Langley looked at me with such sadness that I had to look away.

The testing never happened. The help never came.

I was simply expected to try harder.

Middle school brought new levels of contrast. Amelia was already taking high school courses by the time I arrived. Her reputation preceded her—teachers lit up when they saw “Matthews” on the roster, then dimmed slightly when they realized it was just me.

Every teacher who had once taught my sister would greet me with an expectant smile that quickly faded after the first failed quiz, the hesitant class participation, the homework that never quite followed the rubric. I couldn’t even blame them. I felt like a different species.

The public humiliation reached its peak when I was thirteen, at my father’s company’s annual charity gala. The event was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hundreds of New York’s elite gathered in designer formal wear amid priceless artifacts. My father, glass of champagne in hand, stood beneath a marble archway surrounded by investors.

“These are my daughters,” he announced proudly as Amelia and I approached. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “This one is headed for greatness. Sixteen years old and already accepted to a special summer program at Harvard.”

Then he gestured vaguely in my direction.

“And this one… well, she tries her best.”

A polite chuckle rippled through the group. I stood there in my carefully selected dress, feeling like an exhibit myself.

Disappointing Daughter. American. Early 21st Century.

That same year, Amelia won the National Young Scientists Award for a project on renewable energy. Our living room became a shrine to her achievement. The gleaming trophy sat on the mantel, visible from every angle of the entry hall. My father had professional photos taken of her holding the award, which were then framed and hung throughout the house like campaign posters.

Meanwhile, I had discovered a love for visual arts. In the school art room, I finally found something that made sense to me. Colors, shapes, and spatial relationships spoke a language I understood instinctively. My art teacher, Mr. Santos, praised my perspective and eye for design.

When I nervously brought home a portfolio piece that had won a local competition, my mother glanced at it briefly.

“That’s nice, dear,” she said, distractedly flipping through her planner. “A pleasant hobby for you.”

My father was more direct. “Art is for people who can’t do real academic work, Callie. It’s not a career path for someone from this family.”

By high school, the emotional distance between my parents and me had become a chasm. We existed in the same house, but occupied different planets. Amelia’s achievements continued at rocket speed: AP classes, national competitions, academic awards. She became valedictorian without breaking a sweat.

I, on the other hand, was barely holding on. My GPA hovered near the minimum graduation requirement. I passed by staying late with teachers, begging for extra credit, and hiding in the bathroom to cry during math tests. I learned how to compensate with charm and people-pleasing, how to redirect attention before anyone noticed how lost I was.

The day Amelia received her Harvard acceptance letter with a full merit scholarship, my parents threw a champagne reception in our home. White tablecloths. A jazz trio. Catered hors d’oeuvres. Dozens of people filled the house to toast the future of the Matthews legacy.

I wasn’t invited to make a speech.

During the party, I overheard my father speaking to his business partner near the bar.

“Finally, someone worthy of carrying on the Matthews name,” he said, clinking glasses. “I was beginning to worry.”

My mother laughed politely. “If only Callie had applied herself like her sister. But we can’t all be blessed with such brilliant children, can we?”

What they didn’t know—what I had carefully hidden—was that I had sought out answers on my own. At seventeen, I used birthday money and savings from summer jobs to see an educational psychologist, recommended quietly by my school guidance counselor.

The diagnosis was clear.

Severe dyslexia and discalculia.

Learning differences that explained the nightmare I had lived through in school. The psychologist’s words were gentle, but they hit like thunder.

“With proper accommodations and different learning strategies, you likely have above-average intelligence,” she said. “Your scores in visual-spatial reasoning are in the top five percent. Your brain just processes information differently.”

I cried in her office—big, heaving sobs of relief and rage. Relief that I wasn’t broken. Rage that no one had ever helped me see that.

But I didn’t tell my family.

What would be the point?

By then, the narrative was carved in stone. Amelia: the genius. Callie: the disappointment.

Trying to change their perception seemed both impossible and, at some level, not worth the effort.

When I decided to skip college after graduation, my parents didn’t argue. If anything, they seemed relieved. It was confirmation. Amelia was off to Harvard. I was staying behind. Proof, as far as they were concerned, of what they’d always believed: one daughter exceptional, the other expendable.

What they didn’t know was that I had a plan.

If traditional education wasn’t my path, I would carve out another one. On my terms.

Against their wishes—and without their help—I applied for a job as a receptionist at a small design firm in Chelsea called Crossroads Creative. My father, ever obsessed with optics, sneered at the idea.

“A front desk job? For a Matthews? You can’t be serious. I can introduce you to someone respectable. Something administrative, maybe finance-adjacent.”

“I’ll find my own way,” I told him.

It might have been the first time I’d ever said no to his face.

The firm occupied a sunlit loft on the west side—wide windows, exposed brick, indoor plants everywhere. There were no cubicles, no suits, no stiff handshakes. Just designers in jeans and sneakers, creative chaos, and music playing low from the communal speakers. It felt like breathing for the first time.

My desk sat at the front, within view of nearly everything. I answered phones, scheduled meetings, greeted clients. But mostly, I watched. Observed. Absorbed.

Jackson Davis, the founder, was nothing like my father. He wore his sleeves rolled up, remembered everyone’s name, and gave equal respect to the cleaning crew and the creative directors. He was in his fifties, calm, kind, always scribbling in a notebook. The whole place revolved around the belief that people mattered as much as the work.

Six months into the job, I overheard a conversation between the design team and a high-profile client. They were stuck. The branding for a wellness app wasn’t landing. They’d cycled through three concepts, and nothing clicked.

I hovered near the kitchen during lunch, trying not to be obvious. Then I said it.

“Sorry—can I say something?”

Five faces turned toward me, blinking in unison.

Jackson smiled. “Go on.”

“The designs are clean, but they’re also… cold,” I said carefully. “People downloading a wellness app are probably already stressed. You’re giving them too much data, too fast. What if you started with how you want them to feel when they open the app instead of what you want them to do?”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just surprised.

I grabbed a napkin and, without thinking too hard, sketched a layout. Simple shapes, more breathing room, calming colors. An onboarding flow that welcomed, rather than overwhelmed.

Jackson studied the napkin for a long time.

“How’d you come up with this?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just… see it. I can feel how spaces affect people.”

That napkin changed everything.

After that, Jackson started asking me to sit in on meetings. At first, to take notes. But he’d always pull me aside afterward and ask, “What did you see?”

He told me I had an intuitive grasp of emotional design—something even seasoned professionals struggled to develop. He started teaching me after hours. Photoshop. Interface design. Project management. Strategy. I stayed late most nights, often hours after the office emptied out, soaking in everything he gave me like a second chance at an education I could actually understand.

“You see differently,” he said one night as we sat reviewing a wireframe. “That’s not a weakness, Callie. It’s your edge.”

Within a year, I was freelancing small projects on the side. Logos for startups. Websites for nonprofits. Always under a pseudonym: Clare Matthews. I didn’t want anyone to trace it back to my father’s name—or to me.

The projects started small, but word spread. Clients called my work “warm,” “unexpected,” “human.” They said I made them feel understood. Seen. Some even cried during presentations.

While my parents believed I was still answering phones, my little one-bedroom in Brooklyn had quietly transformed into the nerve center of a growing design consultancy.

One wall was covered with whiteboards and Post-its. My desk held a state-of-the-art computer setup—paid for, piece by piece, with my own money. My business model focused on emotionally intelligent design, combining user experience principles with psychological insight. I wasn’t just making things pretty. I was making them feel right.

I built a team—contractors who worked remotely. Writers, illustrators, coders. None of them knew I was “just a receptionist.” None of them knew I was still playing small every Sunday at family dinner, nodding politely while my father bragged about Amelia’s latest internship or fellowship or research breakthrough.

“How’s the phone answering going, Callie?” he’d ask with that familiar smirk.

“It’s fine,” I’d say.

And in my mind, I’d go back to my desk. Back to the project briefs waiting in my inbox. Back to the world where I mattered.

By the time I turned twenty-five, I had contracts with three mid-sized tech companies, an educational platform, and two international retailers looking to overhaul their entire online experience. I was quietly making six figures and being courted by conferences to speak on emotional interface design.

I declined them all. I didn’t want my family to find out—not yet.

I wanted to build something no one could take credit for.

Harvard Yard in late May looked like something from a brochure. The brick buildings glowed in the late spring sun, surrounded by meticulously trimmed lawns and white chairs arranged in endless rows. Crimson banners flapped in the breeze. The atmosphere pulsed with pride, tradition, and exclusivity.

I arrived alone, parking my modest Toyota several blocks away. I walked the rest of the distance in a navy dress and flats. Simple. Appropriate. But not up to my mother’s standards, which she made clear the moment she saw me.

“Callie, darling,” she said, air-kissing my cheek without quite touching it. “You made it. That dress is… understated. You didn’t want to shop for something new for your sister’s big day?”

Before I could answer, an usher arrived to lead my parents to the VIP section—reserved for families of summa cum laude graduates. I was directed to general seating, far in the back.

As always, close enough to be included in photos. Not close enough to matter.

I sat in the back row, among strangers, squinting to make out the students’ faces under their caps. When they called Amelia’s name — Amelia Matthews, magna cum laude in Economics and Computer Science — the applause from the front section was thunderous. I clapped too. I meant it. I was proud of her.

But even pride has its limits.

After the ceremony, we moved to a private dining room at Harvest, a famously expensive restaurant in Harvard Square. The table was long and lined with silverware too polished to touch. My father stood at the head, champagne glass raised high. The sun caught the bubbles as he began his toast.

“Today marks the culmination of everything we’ve invested in,” he said, his voice rich with pride. “From the moment Amelia showed her extraordinary potential as a child, Diana and I knew she was destined for greatness.”

Amelia, sitting beside him in a white dress that likely cost more than my entire monthly rent, smiled modestly. But I saw the flicker of unease in her eyes.

“And now,” my father continued, “as she begins the next chapter of her remarkable journey, Diana and I have made an important decision about the Matthews legacy.”

The room quieted. Even the waitstaff seemed to pause.

“We are proud to announce that Amelia will inherit the entirety of the Matthews estate.”

A silence fell over the room so sharp I could hear my own pulse. My mother stepped forward, placing a hand on my father’s shoulder.

“This includes our Manhattan residence, valued at ten million, the vacation property in the Hamptons, the Tesla, and Richard’s entire investment portfolio.”

Amelia looked down at her plate.

I looked down at my hands.

Aunt Margaret, sitting several seats away, leaned over politely and asked, “And what are you doing these days, dear?”

It was a kind attempt at inclusion, I knew. But it felt like a spotlight.

“I’m still with the same company,” I said vaguely. “It’s going well.”

No one asked for more.

Back at the end of the table, I became transparent once again—seen, but not acknowledged. Present, but not counted.

I excused myself and stepped outside onto the terrace. The air was warm. The sky too beautiful for how heavy I felt. I leaned against the stone balustrade, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

That was when a man approached.

Mid-fifties. Tailored gray suit. Kind eyes.

“Callie Matthews?”

I straightened. “Yes?”

He smiled and extended a hand. “Thomas Bennett. We’ve spoken on video, though not in person. I’m Jackson’s business partner.”

My heart stalled. Thomas Bennett — venture capitalist, angel investor, one of the most respected names in tech.

He reached into his jacket and handed me a thick envelope.

“I believe this belongs to you. Jackson and I thought today might be the perfect time.”

Confused, I took it. “What is this?”

“An opportunity,” he said. “One you’ve earned.”

He leaned in slightly. “Now’s the time to show them who you really are.”

And then he walked away.

I found a quiet corner, hidden behind potted topiaries, and opened the envelope. Inside were acquisition documents. An offer from Elemental Technologies, one of the world’s biggest tech firms.

They wanted to acquire my company.

For thirty million dollars.

I flipped through the pages. Metrics. Charts. Client retention stats. Revenue projections. Everything I’d built — measured, validated, and valued.

Three times the value of the Manhattan mansion my parents had just given to Amelia.

Clipped to the front was a letter from Jackson.

Callie,

Five years ago, you sketched a user flow on a napkin and changed how I see design. Since then, you’ve built something extraordinary. No shortcuts. No favors.

You let your work speak.

Now, it’s time to let your name speak too.

Whatever you decide, I hope you let the world see what I’ve always seen in you.

— Jackson

I sat down on the edge of a planter, hands trembling. Not from fear. From the sheer force of clarity.

Everything I had believed about myself — that I wasn’t smart enough, not capable, not worthy — was a lie planted in me by people who had mistaken sameness for excellence.

I called Jackson.

“You got the offer?” he said.

“Is this real?”

“As real as it gets.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

He paused.

“You’ve been ready for years.”

Back inside, my father was preparing another toast. I stepped into the room and cleared my throat.

“Before we continue,” I said, “I’d like to say something.”

Heads turned. My mother stiffened. My father gave a strained smile.

“Of course, Callie. Keep it brief.”

I walked to the head of the table and placed the envelope down beside his champagne glass.

“This,” I said, “is a $30 million acquisition offer for my company.”

Silence.

“My company,” I repeated. “Which I built without your money. Without your guidance. Without your approval.”

Gasps. A few whispers. My cousin looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“I’ve been running a UX design consultancy for five years. My clients include major tech firms, hospitals, and global retailers. Everything you said I couldn’t do? I’ve done it. And more.”

My father opened the envelope, his hands shaking. He flipped through the pages.

“This… can’t be…”

“It is.”

Amelia stood, moving slowly around the table. She hugged me. Softly. Sincerely.

“I had no idea,” she whispered. “You didn’t need to tell me. But I wish you had.”

My mother was already recalibrating.

“We always believed in you,” she said with a smile too practiced to be real.

“No, you didn’t,” I replied. “But that’s okay. Because I believe in me now.”

As I walked out of the restaurant, Thomas trailing behind me, I felt something lift off my shoulders. Not shame. Not rage.

Silence.

The good kind.

The kind that means peace.

Epilogue

I accepted the offer. With conditions. I retained creative control and restructured the company into something bigger, more inclusive, more me. I started a foundation for students with learning differences. I paid for testing, tutoring, mentorship programs. I helped kids like me see themselves in a different light.

Amelia and I built a real relationship, outside of competition and expectation. My parents are… trying. Some days it’s enough. Some days it’s not.

But I’m no longer waiting for them to love me the right way.

I love me the right way.

So here’s my story.

Not for sympathy.

For you.

If you’ve ever been overlooked, underestimated, told you’d never make it — this is your sign.

Your difference isn’t a flaw.

It’s your edge.

Let them underestimate you.

And then make them remember your name.

The weeks following the acquisition were filled with press inquiries, legal documents, and the quiet hum of reinvention. My name—Callie Matthews—was now attached to headlines I never imagined I’d be part of. From Disappointment to Design Visionary, The Woman Behind Tech’s Most Empathetic Interfaces, Why Dyslexia May Be the Next Superpower in UX.

And yet, through it all, I stayed grounded.

Because this wasn’t about vindication anymore. It wasn’t about showing the

The loft I moved into in Tribeca was everything my childhood home wasn’t. Warm. Open. Inviting. There were no marble floors. No intimidating silence. Just sun-soaked walls, worn leather chairs, shelves lined with books I actually understood. My team visited often—people I had hired not for the names on their diplomas, but for how their minds lit up in the spaces others missed. We’d brainstorm over takeout, map ideas on glass walls, and laugh too loudly to be mistaken for anything corporate.

It was a different kind of empire.

One built on empathy, not hierarchy.

Jackson visited once a week. We’d walk through the open-plan studio with coffee in hand, and he’d beam like a proud father—one I chose. Not because he needed me to succeed to validate himself, but because he’d seen something in me long before anyone else had the imagination to.

“Funny thing about broken systems,” he said once. “They tend to reject innovation until it threatens to replace them.”

I understood now. My family wasn’t evil. Just rigid. Built from brittle rules that couldn’t bend to make space for someone like me. And because I didn’t fit, they called me a failure. Because I was different, they mistook it for broken.

I wasn’t broken.

I was just early.

It took Amelia longer to understand that. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she was inside the machine that worked for her. The prodigy. The chosen one. We’d grown up in a house where her brilliance had been curated and mine had been ignored, and yet somehow, she still reached out after everything.

We started having brunch once a month—at first awkward, then easier. She asked real questions. Not just about my business, but about my art, my voice, the years I spent hiding in plain sight. She listened.

One morning, over lemon ricotta pancakes, she said, “I envy you, you know.”

I laughed. “You were the golden child. The one who made them proud.”

She stirred her coffee slowly. “Exactly. I never got to rebel. Never had a moment to fall apart. I’ve always been terrified that if I stopped being exceptional, they’d stop loving me.”

There it was. The cage I hadn’t seen—because I’d only ever looked at my own bars.

I reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’m sorry you carried all that. I really am.”

She blinked fast, then smiled. “We both survived. That counts for something.”

My parents… well, my parents changed in inches, not miles. My mother began forwarding articles about neurodiversity to her bridge group. My father, always slower, more skeptical, stopped calling what I did “cute.” He even introduced me once as “my daughter, the entrepreneur,” which for him was practically Shakespearean praise.

We didn’t have a tearful reunion. No dramatic apology. But there was a shift.

Subtle.

Real.

When they came to visit my new office, my father stood by the wall of interface sketches and said quietly, “So this is what you built.”

“Yes,” I said, watching his expression.

He nodded. “It’s impressive.”

Not “for you.” Not “considering.” Just… impressive.

It wasn’t the forgiveness I thought I wanted.

But it was a beginning.

The night before the press conference announcing the acquisition, I walked to the Brooklyn Bridge, alone. It was drizzling—light enough not to bother, heavy enough to keep the tourists away. I stood there at the center of the span, looking back at the city, the skyline sharp against the gray sky.

I thought of thirteen-year-old me, hiding in the boathouse with a sketchpad while the party raged on. I thought of the little girl crying in the laundry room, whispering, “I just don’t get it,” to herself over homework. I thought of napkin sketches, late nights, the ache of always being almost.

Then I thought of Dylan. The kids I’d mentored. The team I’d built.

I wasn’t almost anything anymore.

I was entirely, irrevocably, myself.

And that was enough.

More than enough.

The next morning, I walked onto the stage—not as Clare, the ghost identity I’d used to build my empire—but as Callie. Callie Matthews. Dyslexic. Overlooked. Written off. And now? CEO. Visionary. Builder of something no one else could have imagined.

I looked out at the sea of faces—reporters, executives, curious onlookers—and smiled.

“My name is Callie Matthews,” I began. “And for most of my life, I was told I wouldn’t amount to much. I struggled in school. I was diagnosed late. I was dismissed by the people closest to me.”

I paused, letting the room settle.

“What they didn’t know was that I was still watching. Still learning. Still building.”

I lifted the mic slightly.

“This company started with a napkin and a gut instinct. It became a business. A philosophy. A movement. Not in spite of how I think, but because of it.”

I saw Thomas nod in the front row.

“Don’t let anyone tell you your difference is a weakness. Your difference may just be your advantage.”

And with that, I stepped into the light.

Not as the disappointment.

But as the design.

By my own hand.

On my own terms.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t hiding anymore.

I was exactly where I belonged.