The Middle Rabbit

The Rabbit had an older brother.
And a younger sister.
This meant the Rabbit spent much of childhood in the middle.

The older brother was exceptionally clever.
Not ordinary school clever.
The sort of clever that adults talked about.
The sort of clever that seemed obvious even to other children.

The Rabbit admired this.
How could it not?
The older brother seemed to understand and know things that felt permanently out of reach.
The older brother learnt things that the rabbit was never able to learn.

The rabbit felt really bad about this.
That it had let someone down somewhere along the way.
Maybe the rabbit had let its parents down.
Maybe it had let itself down.
Maybe the rabbit was lazy.

The Rabbit did learn early that there was always someone in the house who could answer questions the Rabbit could not.
Years later, the older brother would go to Oxford.
Nobody was surprised.
Least of all the Rabbit.

The younger sister occupied a different position entirely.
She was the youngest.
Which already comes with certain privileges.
But she was also a girl.

The Rabbit's mother had always wanted a daughter.
The Rabbit understood this long before anyone explained it.
Children notice where attention goes.
Not because they are jealous.
Because they are observant.

The Rabbit spent years watching love move around the room.
Noticing who needed help.
Who needed praise.
Who needed attention.
Who needed protection.

The Rabbit was not ignored.
The Rabbit was loved most of the time.
That distinction matters.

But childhood is not a court of law.
Children do not measure what is true.
They measure what is felt.
And the Rabbit often felt slightly outside the centre of things.

Not excluded.
Not forgotten.
Just...
slightly to one side.

The older brother had brilliance.
The younger sister had uniqueness.
The Rabbit was less certain what role belonged to the Rabbit.

So the Rabbit watched.
And listened.
And learned.
Because when you are not entirely sure where you fit, observation becomes a useful place to stand.