expectations

James learned early that being the eldest meant being owed nothing. Illness didn’t excuse him. Exhaustion wasn’t real unless it affected someone else. His parents believed effort cured everything and that boys who complained were negotiating for comfort. So comfort was removed preemptively. At fourteen, James ran the house between school hours. Laundry before dawn. Meals prepared quietly. Homework finished late, if at all. When he fell behind, they said he lacked discipline. When teachers called, his parents apologized for him, not to him. “You embarrass us,” his father said. “You make things difficult,” his mother added. His siblings lived differently. They were managed, not molded. Protected from responsibility so they could stay light, cheerful, unburdened. When they failed, it was understandable. When James did, it was a flaw. The family narrative was clean and convincing. James was strong. James didn’t need help. James could take it. Relatives admired the order. Neighbors complimented the parenting. No one noticed that the boy rarely sat down. By the time James stopped mentioning hunger, pain, or fear, his parents relaxed. Silence meant success. Compliance meant love, even if no one said it out loud. They believed they were raising a man who could endure anything. They never asked whether he should have had to.