not for you

At fourteen, James was told he was lucky. Lucky to be trusted. Lucky to be capable. Lucky to not need rewards like other kids. His parents spoke about him like a success story, especially when relatives were around. “He doesn’t need supervision,” they’d say. “He just knows what to do.” What he knew was work. James ran the house quietly. Cleaning. Cooking. Watching siblings. Fixing what broke. Resetting rooms after others lived in them. There was no allowance because he was told money would “ruin his work ethic.” No electronics because distraction weakened discipline. His parents said they were doing him a favor. His sister received the opposite lesson. Comfort. Devices. Excuses. When she forgot chores, it was because she was tired. When he forgot one, it was because he was careless. When she cried, the house stopped. When he went quiet, they said he was improving. The manipulation was gentle and constant. “If you really cared, you’d help without asking.” “You’re the strong one. Don’t be selfish.” “You don’t want to end up soft, do you?” They never punished him loudly. They simply removed what little he had left: rest, privacy, approval. Praise came only when he exceeded expectations and disappeared the moment he slowed. By the time James realized love in his house was earned through usefulness, it was already routine. He stopped asking for things. Stopped expecting fairness. Stopped imagining a version of himself that was allowed to want. His parents believed they were raising a disciplined son. What they actually raised was a child who learned that being needed was safer than being loved.