no voice

By fourteen, he had been promoted out of childhood. His parents didn’t dislike him. That would have required emotion. What they felt was efficiency. He was useful. Reliable. Replaceable if needed. Love was reserved for softer things. His mother curated the narrative. She spoke in calm sentences and moral logic. Someone had to hold the family together. Someone had to be mature. She said this while assigning him every chore and excusing his sister from all of them. His father reinforced the system through silence. Agreement without authorship. If something went wrong, he looked to the boy first. If something went right, he looked away. They framed everything as preparation. “No allowance. You learn discipline.” “No electronics. You learn focus.” “No birthdays. You don’t need distractions.” His sister received gifts “to encourage her spirit.” He received duties “to strengthen his character.” When relatives visited, they praised him openly. Such a good boy. Such a helper. His parents smiled proudly, as if they’d discovered a rare tool that worked without maintenance. The boy learned the rules early. Never ask for rest. Never expect thanks. Never compare yourself. Responsibility became his identity. Not because he chose it, but because it was safer than resisting. Safer than being labeled difficult. Ungrateful. Weak. They told him he was strong. What they meant was obedient. And by the time he realized strength wasn’t supposed to feel this empty, the house was already running on him.