I never meant to sever ties with my family. Who really does, when it's all said and done? They are my blood, the only people who truly understand me—and in my case, that's more truth than cliché.
When I was thirteen, I realized I was the least of my siblings. We all had a lot to live up to from the beginning—two award-winning journalists in top positions at one of the largest newspapers in the world for parents. That was all compounded by a brother who brought sustainable organic farming to a rural community, which in turn brought new life to the surrounding farming community; an older sister who worked for the UN; a younger sister who decided she was going to be a lawyer when she was six and later represented Batman; and a youngest sister who made more in a year's advertising on her blog at the age of seventeen than I made from my first contract in Hollywood.
Joanna was the smartest and the prettiest. Molly was the most practical. Becca was the funniest. Jason had the biggest heart. What did that leave me to be? The only thing I really found a talent for was acting in school plays. For a while I had Riley. He was my rock; I didn't need to be anything because I fit into his world perfectly even if I didn't fit into my family. But he was older, and he was in the military, and his unit shipped out. And he died.
Maybe it was stupid, but it was my senior year. I was almost done with high school—we figured nobody would notice 'til well after graduation. And by that time we'd be together in an apartment, engaged. We decided to get pregnant. Then he shipped out, and died. I was alone and suddenly looking the fool in the most cliché way—stupid, promiscuous senior.
More than anything, I was embarrassed. How do you tell your dad that you got knocked up? How do you tell Superman that you got knocked up? Especially when he's your dad? I ran away.
Jason was always the perfect older sibling. He was a buffer between us and our parents, understanding that adult point of view but relating to us as 'one of the kids.' He was also conveniently halfway across the country away from them, where I could get big and pregnant and refuse to see them, and he would ask them to stay away for my sake. And Danielle loves kids; she was great, helpful.
I don't think I've ever cried as much as I did between the time that Riley died and the time that I gave birth to Tiberius. Yes, I named him Tiberius. It's a ridiculous name, but Riley loved "Star Trek" and he always joked that he would name his son Tiberius. Jason calls him Jim, to keep with the "Star Trek" theme but not have to call him Tiberius.
I stayed with them at the farm for a month after I'd given birth. Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever done. But I had to. The fact is that I have to do something to live up to the rest of my family, and all I did from childhood to the end of high school was thoroughly mark myself the black sheep. I didn't get perfect grades. I had acne. I didn't like school. It took me forever to learn how to fly.
After all that, the running away from home and the leaving my son, I couldn't go back on it for anything. Not when Dad came to my pathetic apartment in LA, not when he called me every day to try to convince me to come home. Not when all my sisters and Mom tried to convince me to come home. Not when Jason tried his roundabout, guilt-tripping way of getting me to visit Tiberius more often.
There is one thing that I'm good at. That one thing is acting. If I must be the least of my siblings, I will at least be the best in my chosen field. Being known for not speaking to my famous parents isn't the best reputation, but it is a reputation. And I am, at least, a good actress; Dad never did try to contact me again after I told him I hated that he was an alien.