jonah

No one ever said they hated Jonah. They didn’t need to. Hate lived in logistics. In tone. In what was remembered and what was quietly ignored. Jonah was fourteen and already separate. Not grounded. Not punished. Just excluded from concern. When he spoke, conversations continued around him. When he was hurt, explanations appeared instantly, already rehearsed. His mother specialized in dismissal. She corrected teachers, neighbors, relatives. Jonah wasn’t mistreated; he was difficult. Sensitive. Accident-prone. She said it kindly, like a diagnosis. His father specialized in silence. He never defended Jonah, never accused him either. He simply removed himself. Doors closed. Chairs turned away. Presence withdrawn like funding from a failed project. There were no rules written for Jonah because rules implied care. Instead, there were expectations he could never meet and consequences that arrived without warning. Chores filled his time not as responsibility, but as containment. Keep him busy. Keep him quiet. Keep him useful. His sister was not the opposite. She was the proof. Proof that love existed in the house. That warmth was available, just not for him. The cruelty was not loud. It was administrative. Medical forms marked “no concerns.” School notes went unsigned. Birthdays were acknowledged late, if at all. Praise was redirected. Affection was reserved. Jonah learned early that pain was safest when internal. Visible suffering required explanation, and explanation turned into accusation. By the time he stopped flinching, his parents were relieved. A child who asks for nothing causes no trouble.