being done

James was the eldest, which meant he was the structure, not the child. At fourteen, his life was divided into duties. Morning chores before school. Afternoon errands. Evening cleaning. He cooked meals he never chose and washed dishes he never dirtied. His siblings were protected from responsibility so they could “focus on being kids.” His parents said this was intentional. “We’re building a strong man,” his father liked to say. “Comfort makes boys weak,” his mother added. So James got discomfort by design. He wore second-hand clothes even when the family could afford better. Electronics were unnecessary for him. Birthdays were skipped because celebration built entitlement. When he asked why his brother got new things, they corrected his tone instead of answering. “You don’t need what he needs.” “You already had your turn.” “Stop keeping score.” But the score was always visible. His brother slept late. James woke early. His sister was praised for helping once. James was criticized for missing a speck of dust. Relatives joined in without question. “Such a helpful boy.” “So responsible.” “His parents raised him right.” No one asked what it cost. When James showed fatigue, they called it attitude. When he went quiet, they called it progress. When he stopped asking for anything at all, they said the training was complete. The cruelest part was consistency. There were no outbursts, no apologies, no moments of warmth to confuse the pattern. Just calm authority and moral language used like paperwork. They didn’t see neglect. They saw efficiency. And James learned the final rule without being told. If he wanted to stay, he had to be useful. If he wanted peace, he had to disappear.