The Struggle

Tonight, in desperate need of a chat, I talked to my brother who is one of the nicer, gentler, kinder people in the universe, and he made me laugh a nice solid laugh about something I should laugh about more: Our upbringing, which was loosely based on the laws of the jungle.
So he's complaining because mom and I are going away this Saturday. This cuts into his plans for mom to make his favorite food on Saturday.
I suggest he ask her to make it on Friday so he can eat it later. He recoils at the idea. My mom always gives him a hard time about food requests, he alleges, and that hard time is only worth it if the food is fresh off the stove. (Aloo parathas for those in the know.)
"Mom never gives me a hard time when I ask for something," I say, not tauntingly, but curious-like.
"Yeah, I know. She hides food for you. Do we really want to open this pandora's box?"
Yes, yes I do.
"There's an underclass in this family," he says, "and I am it."
I'd heard this from him before, but never in terms of class struggle. It makes me laugh.
"At some point I hit a glass ceiling," he explains. "I think it was when I was born."
I laugh, hysterically. A corporate struggle.
"I'm glad you think this is funny."
I laugh again. He laughs a little, too.