If I’m mentioned around my family, I’m referred to as “The Baby”. “Where’s the baby? What’s the baby doing?” I earned this title by being the last born child, 13 years younger than my sister, and a whopping 20 years younger than my brother. Being called “The Baby” is one of my earliest memories. I remember looking up at my father’s much younger profile as he was speaking of me to my mother, almost as if I wasn’t there. That’s the kicker with being the youngest. No matter how loud, self-centered, and outgoing I act, I will always be put on the back burner. The first child is the trophy and the middle child is the long lost prize. I’m the wrinkled participation ribbon. My parents love and care for me, but they know I’ll always be around. My independence is chained up due to the idea that I can’t do anything for myself. I haven’t done anything my siblings haven’t done first. An excruciating inferiority complex will always accompany the exhibition of my achievements. But hey, at least I always get my way.