Look, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it coming. When you spend 28 years watching your parents treat your older brother like he’s the second coming while treating you like a participation trophy they forgot to throw away, you develop a certain radar for disappointment.

 But even I wasn’t prepared for the phone call that came on my 20th birthday. Daniel, honey, we need to talk to you about something. Mom said in that voice she always used when she was about to tell me something I wouldn’t like but was supposed to accept with grace. You know the tone. Part kindergarten teacher, part hostage negotiator.

 I was sitting in my studio apartment in Portland, eating leftover pad thai for breakfast because that’s what success looks like when you’re a freelance graphic designer who is still building his brand. The place was 400 square ft of crush dreams and IKEA furniture. But hey, at least the radiator worked most of the time. What’s up, Mom? Well, your father and I have been talking and we’ve decided to help Tyler with a down payment on a house. I waited for the rest.

 There had to be more. There wasn’t. Okay, that’s that’s great for Tyler. We’re giving him $100,000. I nearly dropped my phone into my pad tie, which would have been tragic because that was literally my next three meals. $100,000. Yes, we want to help our children succeed. Our children singular apparently. So, uh, just to clarify, you’re giving Tyler a h 100red grand for a house.

 And for me, you’re giving silence. The kind that speaks volumes, writes dissertations, and publishes them in peer-review journals. Daniel, you’re in a very different place in your life than Tyler. You’ve made different choices. Tyler has a stable career, a serious relationship, a plan.

 You’re still finding yourself? Finding myself? At 28, I’d found myself just fine, sitting in my underwear, eating cold noodles, watching my net worth circle the drain. We knew you’d understand. You’ve always been so independent. Independent? That’s a funny way to spell neglected, but who am I to correct my own mother? Here’s the thing about being the family disappointment.

 It’s a slow accumulation of small moments, tiny cuts that eventually add up to one big scar-shaped like not good enough. Tyler is 3 years older, and from the moment he could walk, he was golden. Literally blonde hair that caught light just right. Mom called him her little sunshine. My brown hair was practical. Even my hair was a disappointment. Tyler played football. I played jazz band. Tyler dated the homecoming queen.

 I dated my Xbox. Tyler Cruz through state school with a business degree. I went to art school on student loans that’ll outlive me. But here’s what kills me. I tried. When I was 15, I entered a national graphic design competition. Spent 3 months on it. Barely slept. Won second place out of 3,000 entries. Dad’s response.

 Well, at least you tried your best. Tyler came in fourth at a regional swim meet and dad bought him a new laptop. I’m not bitter. Okay, I’m a little bitter. I’m like a craft IPA of bitterness complex with notes of resentment and a slightly hoppy finish. Mom wasn’t always like this, though.

 When I was really little, before Tyler became the golden boy, she’d sit with me while I drew hot chocolate and Disney movies, telling me I’d be a famous artist someday. I was seven when I drew this elaborate dragon. Objectively terrible, but I was proud. Mom taped it to the fridge and made Dad look at it. Our Daniel is going to be an artist, she said, and she sounded proud. That was before Tyler started winning things.

After that, my drawings moved from the fridge to the basement art wall, a fancy term for place where we put things we’re obligated to care about but don’t want to look at. College was my redemption ark. except I graduated into the 2016 economy and discovered exposure is apparently currency now.

 First job paid 28,000 and required 5 years experience, a master’s degree and proficiency in software that wouldn’t exist for another decade. I lasted 8 months before getting restructured, which is corporate speak for fired and ended up freelancing.

 That’s what you call unemployment when you want to sound entrepreneurial at parties. But I kept trying. Took every client. Designed logos for crypto scams, flyers for garage bands, Instagram graphics for influencers who paid in exposure. Slowly, painfully, I built something. Got decent clients. Started charging actual money. By 28, I was making enough to survive. Not comfortably, not impressively, but enough.

 And then Tyler announced he was buying a house. It happened at Sunday dinner, a tradition my parents insisted on even though we all lived 40 minutes apart in different directions. We pretend to be functional for 2 hours weekly. Jess and I have been looking at houses, Tyler said, passing mashed potatoes. Tyler always pass things helpful. Consider it golden. Great neighborhood in Belleview, but down payments are insane.

 Dad perked up like a golden retriever hearing the word walk. How much? Houses are around 500,000. We’d need a h 100,000 down to avoid PMI. I watched them exchange that married people look where entire conversations happen in a glance. What if we helped? Dad said. Tyler’s face lit up. Dad, I couldn’t. You’re not asking.

 We’re offering. Dad got that satisfied look. It’s time we helped our son build his future. Our son singular. Mom looked at me, probably feeling guilty. Daniel, when you’re ready to settle down. I’m fine. This is great for Tyler. Tyler looked uncomfortable. Thanks, Danny. I’m sure someday. Totally.

 When I’m not such a catastrophic failure. I smiled to show I was joking, but we all knew I wasn’t. That was 3 months before my birthday call. Three months of Sunday dinners discussing Tyler’s house hunt like the moon landing. Three months of we’ve allocated our resources elsewhere. Whenever I needed work equipment, so when mom called on my birthday to officially tell me I wasn’t getting anything, I wasn’t surprised. What surprised me was what came next.

We’re having a celebration dinner this Sunday. Tyler’s closing on the house. You’ll come, won’t you? A celebration for Tyler getting their money on my birthday. Actually, I have plans. Oh, what are you doing? Eating ice cream from the container and questioning my life choices. Probably. But I said, meeting friends. You know how it is. Well, we’ll miss you.

 Maybe birthday dinner next week. Sure, Mom. Next week. We both knew next week would never come. I hung up and sat there looking at my life. 28, 400 square ft, negative net worth. Family that remembered I existed maybe 12 times a year, mostly when they needed someone to feel superior to. That’s when something shifted.

 Not dramatically, no movie montage, no inspiring music, just a quiet realization that I was done. Done trying to win approval. Done showing up to be reminded of inadequacy. Done being the punchline to Tyler’s success story. I wasn’t going to cut them off dramatically or send a manifesto. I was just going to stop, stop calling, stop visiting, stop putting energy into a one-sided relationship.

 Let them have their golden boy and perfect narrative. I’d build something else. I didn’t know what yet, but it would be mine. The first week of silence was weird. I kept catching myself about to text mom something stupid, like a meme I’d seen or a random thought about the weather. Muscle memory from 28 years of trying to maintain a connection that was never really there.

 By week two, I noticed they hadn’t reached out either. Not a single, “Hey, how are you?” or “We miss you at dinner.” just silence, which honestly told me everything I needed to know about how much they’d actually been thinking about me all along. Tyler texted once, “You good?” Mom said, “You’ve been busy.” I replied, “Yeah, swamped with work.

 Congrats on the house.” He sent back a thumbs up. That was the extent of our brotherly bonding. Here’s the thing nobody tells you about going no contact with your family. The hardest part isn’t missing them. It’s realizing how little you actually miss them once they’re gone.

 Like I thought I’d feel this huge void, this aching loss. Instead, I felt lighter, freer, like I’d been carrying a backpack full of rocks and finally realized I could just put it down. But freedom doesn’t pay rent, and my 400 ft apartment was still 400 square ft of expensive. I threw myself into work with the kind of manic energy that either leads to a breakthrough or a breakdown. In my case, thankfully, it was the former.

 I’d been doing this logo design for a small coffee roasting company. Nothing fancy, just a local business trying to look legitimate. The owner, Marcus, was this middle-aged guy who’d quit his corporate job to follow his dream of making pretentious coffee for hipsters. We’d been going back and forth on revisions for weeks.

 I wanted to feel authentic but modern, he’d said. Rustic but clean, bold, but subtle. translation. I have no idea what I want, but I’ll know it’s wrong when I see it. But something clicked on revision number 17. I created this design that was simple, almost brutally minimal, just clean lines and negative space that somehow captured exactly what his brand was trying to be. Marcus called me at 11 p.m. when I sent it over. Daniel, this is it.

 This is exactly it. How much do I owe you? I’d quoted him $800 originally, which was already undercharging for the amount of work I’d put in. But something made me pause. Maybe it was the high of finally creating something that worked. Maybe it was residual anger at my parents. Maybe I was just tired of undervaluing myself.

 1,200, I said, fully expecting him to bulk. Done. I’m also opening a second location next year. Would you be interested in doing all the branding for that? signage, menu, design, packaging, the whole thing. I tried to play it cool. Yeah, I could probably fit that in. Great. I’m thinking around 15,000 for the complete package. Does that work for you? I nearly choked on my own spit.

$15,000 was more than I’d made in the last four months combined. That works. After we hung up, I sat in my apartment staring at the wall. $15,000 for doing work I actually enjoyed for a client who valued what I created. It felt like validation and revenge all at once. That project led to another and that one led to three more.

 Turns out when you stop spending all your emotional energy trying to win your parents approval, you have a lot more left over for actually doing good work. Within 6 months, I doubled my income. Still not rich by any means, but comfortable enough that I could afford groceries without checking my bank account first.

 I moved out of the 400 ft depression box into a one-bedroom apartment that had actual separate rooms. Revolutionary concept. I even bought a couch that wasn’t from Craigslist. By month nine, something strange started happening. I’d wake up and feel content, happy, even like my life wasn’t perfect, but it was mine and that was enough.

 I started hitting the gym, which sounds like such a cliche post breakup move, except this was a post-f family breakup and somehow even sadder, but it felt good to do something just for myself. Plus, Spite is an excellent pre-workout supplement. Around month 10, I met Sarah at a coffee shop. She was working on her laptop at the table next to mine and we got into this conversation about the terrible Wi-Fi and bonded over our mutual frustration with freelance life.

 She was a copywriter, had the same kind of hustle energy I did. We started meeting up to work together, coffee shops, libraries, and eventually each other’s apartments. It wasn’t romantic at first, just two people who understood the specific hell of being self-employed and alone in it.

 Then one night we were working late at her place and she just looked at me and said, “I really like you. You know that?” I’m not going to lie. I completely froze. Emotionally stunted doesn’t even begin to cover my relationship skills. But Sarah laughed at my panic and said, “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.” Two weeks later, we were dating. She was funny, ambitious, and understood why I never talked about my family without making it weird.

 When I finally told her the whole story about the $100,000 and the birthday phone call, she just shook her head. That’s messed up, she said simply. I’m sorry they did that to you. Not. Maybe they had their reasons. Or I’m sure they love you in their own way. Just validation that it was messed up. Revolutionary.

 A year after I’d stopped talking to my family, Sarah and I were at brunch hung over and happy when my phone rang. Mom. I stared at it like it was a bomb. You going to answer that? Sarah asked. I don’t know. Do you want to? Did I? Part of me was curious. Part of me wanted to hear her apologize to admit they’d been wrong to beg me to come back. But a bigger part of me knew that wasn’t going to happen. I let it go to voicemail.

 5 minutes later, I listened to it. Daniel, honey, it’s mom. We haven’t heard from you in so long. Your father and I are worried. Tyler’s worried, too. Please call us back. We miss you. We miss you. After a year of silence, after they’d given Tyler $100,000 and me nothing but disappointment. I deleted the message.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What did she say? Sarah asked. That they miss me. Do you believe her? I thought about it. Really thought about it. Did I believe my mother missed me? Maybe. In the same way you miss an old piece of furniture after you’ve redecorated. Not enough to actually do anything about it. Just a vague sense that something used to be there. No, I said finally.

 I don’t think I do. Sarah squeezed my hand. Then you don’t have to call back. So I didn’t. Two weeks later, Tyler called. I answered mostly out of curiosity. Danny, what’s going on? Mom and dad are freaking out. They said you haven’t called them back. I’ve been busy for a year. Fair point. Yeah, Tyler. For a year. Silence on his end.

 Then is this about the house thing? Because I told them they should have helped you too. I said it wasn’t fair. This surprised me. You did? Of course I did. You’re my brother. But you know how they are. They said you’d understand that you were independent and didn’t need the help. So, you just let them? What was I supposed to do? Turn down $100,000 on principal.

 Also, a fair point, which made me angrier. No, I guess not. Look, just call mom back. Okay. She’s driving me crazy about it. She thinks you’re mad at them or something. I am mad at them. Well, I don’t know. Work it out or whatever. I’ve got to go. Jess is calling. But seriously, just call her. He hung up before I could respond.

 I sat there feeling all the old familiar feelings, that toxic mixture of anger and guilt and inadequacy. The reasonable part of my brain knew I had every right to be upset. But the part of me that had spent 28 years being trained to accommodate everyone else’s feelings started whispering that maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe I should just call her back. Maybe I was the problem. Sarah found me like that staring at my phone. Tyler, she guessed.

 He said mom’s freaking out. Thinks I should call her back. Do you want to? I don’t know what I want. I just know I’m tired of feeling like the bad guy for having boundaries. Then don’t call. You don’t owe them access to your life just because they suddenly decided they wanted it. She was right. Of course, she was right.

 But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things. I didn’t call back. Instead, I kept working, kept building, kept growing, got more clients, raised my rates again, started turning down projects that didn’t excite me. Novel concept that having the luxury to be selective. By month 18, I’d saved enough money to start thinking about something I never thought possible.

 Buying property. Not a house, not yet, but maybe a small piece of land somewhere. A place that was mine. A place I’d earned. A place my parents had nothing to do with. I started looking at listings online late at night, dreaming about what I could build there. Not just physically, but metaphorically. A life completely separate from the family that had never seen my value.

 I didn’t know it then, but that dream was about to become something bigger than I’d ever imagined. and my brother was about to drive past it, pull over and call our father screaming, but that comes later. Finding the property was a complete accident. I wasn’t even looking that day.

 Sarah and I had driven out to the Columbia River Gorge for a weekend hike, one of those spontaneous trips where you wake up on a Saturday and decide you need to see trees that are taller than your apartment building. We’d been dating for about 6 months by then, and things were getting serious in that comfortable way where you stop pretending you don’t snore.

 On the drive back, we took a wrong turn, like spectacularly wrong. GPS lost signal. Sarah was navigating with an actual paper map like we were pioneers. And somehow we ended up on this back road about 40 minutes outside Portland that looked like it hadn’t seen a paving cruise since the Reagan administration. I think we’re lost,” Sarah said, which was the understatement of the year. “We’re not lost. We’re adventuring.

” I was trying to stay positive even though my phone had no service, and we passed the same creepy abandoned barn twice. Then we rounded a corner, and there it was. 5 acres of overgrown land with a handpainted for sale sign barely visible through the blackberry bushes.

 The property backed up to a small creek had these massive old growth fur trees scattered throughout and a view that made you understand why people write poetry about nature. It was completely impractical. The driveway was more suggestion than reality. There was no house, no utilities, just raw land that would require thousands of dollars just to make it buildable. I pulled over anyway. What are you doing? Sarah asked. I want to look.

 Daniel, we’re in the middle of nowhere. This is how horror movies start. But I was already out of the car, walking up what might have been a driveway at some point in history. The property was even better up close. Quiet in that way only forests can be, where silence isn’t empty, but full of small sounds.

 Birds wind through trees, the creek in the distance. I stood there and felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Possibility. The number on the sign was barely legible, but I took a photo and made a mental note to call when we got service again. You’re serious about this, Sarah said when I got back to the car. Maybe. I don’t know.

 Probably can’t afford it anyway. You should call. I did call. The next day, hangover from hell, still smelling like campfire. The owner was a guy named Frank. Had to be in his 70s, voice like sandpaper. You interested in the property? He asked. Maybe. How much are you asking? 45,000. I nearly dropped the phone again. Apparently, that was becoming my thing. $45,000 for 5 acres. Yep.

 It’s unbuildable as is. Needs septic well, and power ran to it. But the land is good. Been in my family since the 50s. I’m just too old to do anything with it now. 45,000. That was less than my parents gave Tyler for a down payment. Less than half, actually. I had 32,000 in savings. Every dollar I’d scraped together over the last 18 months of saying no to my family and yes to myself.

 Would you take 30,000? I asked, expecting him to laugh. Son, I’m asking 45 because that’s what I need. Property taxes, some medical bills. Can’t go lower than that. Fair enough. I couldn’t blame a 70-year-old man for needing to pay his bills. I thanked him and hung up, disappointed, but not surprised. 13,000 short.

 Might as well have been a million. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That property haunted me. I dream about it. Imagine what I could build there. Not even a house necessarily, just something. A studio, a workshop, a place that was completely, undeniably mine. Sarah caught me looking at the photos I’d taken for the hundth time.

 “You really want this?” she said. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t afford it. What if I helped?” I looked at her. “What? I have some savings. Not a lot, but maybe 8,000. We could go in on it together.” Sarah, that’s your money. You can’t just, can’t I? We’ve been talking about moving in together anyway.

 This could be our project. Something we built together, literally. I wanted to say yes immediately. But something stopped me. What if it doesn’t work out between us? I mean, she was quiet for a moment. Then we figure it out like adults. Draw up papers. Make it legal. Protect both our investments.

 But Daniel, you can’t let fear of failure stop you from trying something you actually want. You’ve done that your whole life with your family. She was right. Of course, she was right. When had she become so good at being right? Okay, I said. Let’s do it. We called Frank back that afternoon. Offered 40,000, all we could scrape together.

 He took 3 days to think about it. 3 days where I barely slept, obsessively refreshing my email like it was going to make him decide faster. Finally. All right, son. 40,000. But you pay closing costs. deal. The process took two months. Paperwork, inspections, more paperwork, title searches, even more paperwork. Turns out buying land is mostly just signing your name until your hand cramps.

 Sarah and I drew up an agreement with a lawyer. 60% mine, 40% hers, reflecting our investment. If we broke up, we’d either buy each other out or sell and split proceeds. Very romantic, but also very necessary. Closing day was anticlimactic. Just us and Frank in a title company office, signing papers, shaking hands. Frank gave me the original handpainted for sale. Sign as a joke.

 You earned it, he said. Good luck with the place. And just like that, I owned land. 5 acres of possibility. I stood there after he left, holding the deed, feeling something I hadn’t felt since I was a kid drawing dragons. Pride. The first few months were just clean up. Sarah and I would drive out on weekends, clear blackberry bushes, haul trash that previous owners had dumped.

It was hard work, the kind that leaves you sore and dirty, and strangely satisfied. I started planning, drew sketches of a small cabin, nothing fancy, maybe 800 square ft, something I could potentially build myself with help from YouTube and sheer stubbornness. Then I had a better idea. One of my clients was an architect, young guy named James, who designed sustainable homes.

 We got to talking over coffee about the property and he got excited in that way architects do when they see a project they actually want to work on. What if we made it a showcase project? He said, “I design it. You do all the branding and marketing materials for my firm in trade. We document the whole build process.

 Use it for both our portfolios. I can’t afford to build anything fancy.” James, who said anything about fancy, small, efficient, sustainable? We do it right. Keep cost down. Prove you don’t need a $100,000 gift from your parents to own something beautiful. That last part landed. He knew my story. Most of my close friends did by then.

 Over the next 6 months, we designed it together. a 600 ft cabin with a loft bedroom, composting toilet, rainwater collection, solar panels. Not because I was some environmental crusader, but because it was cheaper than running utilities to the property. Total budget, $65,000, including permits and materials.

 I had about $15,000 saved beyond what I put into the land. Sarah contributed another 10. The rest I financed with a small construction loan at a rate that made me nauseous but was doable. We broke ground in spring. I hired a contractor for the foundation and framing stuff that was beyond my YouTube education.

 But the interior work that I did myself nights and weekends learning as I went. Sarah helped when she could, mostly painting and finishing work. My friend Marcus from the coffee company showed up some Saturdays with a crew of his employees, guys who knew their way around tools and were happy to help for beer and pizza. It was the hardest physical work I’d ever done.

 I lost 15 lbs, gained calluses on top of calluses, and learned that construction is 90% problem solving and 10% swearing. But slowly, painfully, it came together. By fall, 18 months after I’d stopped talking to my family, I had a cabin. Small, simple, completely off-rid, and entirely mine. Well, 60% mine, but still.

 James photographed it for his portfolio. The shots were stunning. Golden hour light filtering through the trees, the cabin looking like something out of Architectural Digest, despite costing a fraction of what Tyler’s house cost. I posted one photo on Instagram.

 The first time I’d shared anything about the project publicly, just the cabin from outside. No context. Caption: Built this. Proud of it. Within an hour, it had more likes than anything I’d ever posted. Within a day, a local design blog had reached out asking to feature it. Within a week, three potential clients had contacted me wanting similar projects. And somewhere in there, Tyler saw it. He was driving back from a hiking trip with friends.

 took a wrong turn. The same wrong turn Sarah and I had taken. Ended up on that back road, recognized my car in the driveway, pulled over, walked up, saw the cabin. That’s when he called. Dad, “You need to see this right now.” He screamed into the phone loud enough that I heard it from inside the cabin where I was installing cabinet hardware.

 I walked outside to find Tyler standing there, phone to his ear, staring at my cabin like it was an alien spacecraft. Our eyes met. “I’ll call you back,” he said to dad, hanging up. “Hey, Tyler, what the hell is this, Danny?” I looked at my cabin, my beautiful little 600 ft middle finger to family expectations. “This,” I said, “is mine.

” Tyler stood there staring, not at me, at the cabin. You built this? He finally asked with help. Yeah. How? You were broke living in that shoe box eating ramen. That was two years ago, Tyler. But dad gave me a $100,000 and you had nothing. How did you? Turns out when you’re not spending all your energy trying to win approval from people who don’t care, you can actually accomplish things. His face went defensive.

 That’s not fair, isn’t it? When’s the last time mom or dad asked about my work? My life? He didn’t answer. I bought this land for 40,000. Built the cabin for 65. Did most of the work myself. No handouts. Just me figuring it out. Tyler looked shaken. Danny, I didn’t know. I thought you thought I was still failing. Still the disappointment. Sarah came out then.

Everything okay? Sarah, this is Tyler. Tyler, Sarah. They shook hands awkwardly. Tyler watched her go back inside. You bought property with your girlfriend. We drew up legal agreements, made it official. It’s called planning, being responsible. All those things Dad said I couldn’t do. He looked uncomfortable.

 I told them they should help you, too. But you took it anyway. What was I supposed to do? Consider that it wasn’t fair? Think about someone besides yourself. Tyler pulled out his phone. I’m calling Dad. He needs to see this. Tyler, don’t. Dad, I’m at Danny’s place. You need to come here now. 32 minutes later, Dad’s truck pulled up. Mom got out first, looking bewildered.

Dad followed, face unreadable. Daniel, what is this? Mom asked. My property. 5 acres. My cabin. Dad walked toward it slowly, examining the solar panels, the design. You built this with what money? There it was. Not I’m proud of you. Just how did you afford this without us? Saved it. Earned it.

 Did the work myself. But we thought you were struggling. I wasn’t struggling. I was working building something without you. Dad’s voice was quiet. He’s right, Susan. Look at this place. There was something new in his tone. Respect. Regret. We gave Tyler H 100,000 and he bought a house that looks like every other house.

 Daniel built this for less than half that. Tyler protested, but dad ignored him. I was wrong about you, about what success looks like. You weren’t failing. You were just on a different road. I didn’t know what to say. I’d imagined this triumphant, but standing here felt smaller, sadder. You should have called us back, Mom said. We were worried.

 Were you? Or just uncomfortable with the silence? She flinched. That’s cruel. So was giving Tyler everything and giving me nothing but criticism. So was forgetting my birthday. So was treating me like I didn’t exist. We never Mom started but the words died. We all knew it was true. I don’t need your approval anymore. I said I don’t need your money. I’m good.

Actually good for the first time. So what now? Tyler asked. You just cut us off forever. Maybe. Or maybe we figure out what a relationship looks like where I’m not the disappointment and you’re not the golden child. Where they treat us like equals. Dad cleared his throat. Can we see inside? I looked at Sarah through the window. She nodded.

 Yeah, you can see it. I gave them the tour. Watch them realize this wasn’t just a cabin. It was proof. Proof I was capable, competent, successful on my own terms. Outside again, the sun is setting through the trees. I need to think about whether I want you back in my life, I said.

 And if I do, it’s going to be different. Boundaries, respect. No more comparisons. That’s fair, Dad said. Mom looked like she wanted to argue, but stayed quiet. Tyler hung back after they left. I’m sorry for real this time. Sorry for not seeing it sooner. Thanks. I meant it. Sarah came out and put her arm around me. How do you feel? Tired? Relieved, sad, proud, all of it.

 That’s fair. You did well today. We sat on the porch, watching the last light fade. My property, my cabin, my life, built from nothing despite everything. Maybe someday I’d let them back in. Maybe we’d find a way to be a real family. But tonight, I was just going to appreciate what I built.

 Not just the cabin, the whole damn thing.