Their eyes were locked on me, reading my every thought, prying at my secrets, peering uninvited into my soul. The light over the table swayed, uncomfortably bright. Beads of cold sweat sprouted along my hairline. I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation …

“How do you like the roast, Dumpling?” Mom asked, with a nonchalance that belied her intrusive stare.

“Delicious, Mom,” I sputtered between cheekfulls of beef and potatoes, hoping the compliment might end my ordeal.

“So, what happened at school today?” my father pressed while pushing peas around his plate.

Wide-eyed and hunched in a self-protective posture at our kitchen table, I muttered the one word that had allowed me to avoid my parents’ attention for so many years: “Nuthin’.”

“Well, something must’ve happened at school today. Here, I’ll help you out. So, you stepped off the bus, and then ...?” he badgered, mercilessly. So it went, night after night.

My brother, Tray, had gone off to the U.S. Naval Academy, leaving me home alone with my parents. For so many years, I’d flown completely under the radar. But now, my only sibling was gone.

As the firstborn, Tray had always carried the entire burden of my parents’ expectations for their offspring. I’d been merely the unremarkable little sister of The Golden Boy, The Favorite, The Apple of Their Eye. Tray not only fulfilled but exceeded their hopes — he was a popular top athlete with gifted math and science skills, who went on to become a Navy jet pilot. His obvious superiority left me free to drift contentedly through childhood, bouncing unnoticed between mediocre and above average.

Wearing ratty Converse Chucks, hand-me-down jean cut-offs and a camp T-shirt, I’d ride my yellow Schwinn through our neighborhood, my Kool-Aid backpack packed with a cheese sandwich, Wacky Package collector’s cards and a Thermos of Tang. On rainy days I’d stay in my room, lost in elaborate pretend scenarios, or I’d play my mother’s old records on my Fisher-Price record player.

As a child, I didn’t resent Tray for getting all my parents’ attention. Quite the contrary, I relished my quiet, comfortable, ignored existence, and happily hid in the humongous shadow of the older brother I idolized.

But then he left home, and the jig was up.

It was as if my parents, Durwood and Diane, looked through the unexpected void left by my brother’s absence and noticed, “Who’s that there? Is that the little chunky one? What’s her name again …? Oh yes! It’s Lisa!”

I was entering 10th grade, and suddenly I was the subject of my parents’ undivided attention. Mom was now interested in what I wore, my social behavior and how I did my hair. “Oh, Dumpling, let’s give a little height to those bangs,” she would say, licking her thumb.

My dad, who had no previous interest in my athletic accomplishments, which included second place in the standing broad jump at church camp, started showing up to all my high school swim meets. My teammates, who knew this sudden change in attention made me nervous, would alert me when Dad appeared in the chlorine-steamed stands, “Head’s up, Lisa! Durwood’s here!”

Night after agonizing night, I was interrogated, forced to reveal my likes, dislikes, social pursuits, academic achievements, ambitions, disappointments, hopes and dreams. Durwood and Diane took an unprecedented interest in me, having long talks about life, taking photographs of me before dances and bragging about me to their friends.

It was like I was their kid or something. Weird.

Decades later, our youngest child, Lilly, sat defensively crouched in her chair at our dinner table, as if we were about to pummel her with dinner rolls. Hayden had been away at college for a couple of years, and Anna had left for college the week before. Lilly’s instinct was telling her, the jig is up.

But I let Lilly know, there’s nothing to fear. I’d lived through it myself and was there to tell the tale about how those left behind suddenly become the center of attention.

The strange people who ignored you all these years? Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you. They are simply your parents, and they’ve finally realized you are pretty darned interesting after all.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com