james 2

By fourteen, James knew exactly how his parents divided the work. His father handled enforcement. He set the rules, measured results, and decided consequences. Everything was about standards. Missed spots. Incomplete tasks. Timing. Efficiency. His voice stayed flat, authoritative, final. His mother handled justification. She explained why the rules existed. Why James didn’t need allowance. Why electronics would “rot his focus.” Why his sister deserved ease while he deserved pressure. She framed everything as wisdom, as preparation, as love that hurt now but helped later. Together, they were seamless. James did all the chores. Every day. Cleaning, cooking, watching his sister, fixing mistakes that weren’t his. There was no allowance because responsibility was his reward. No electronics because distraction was weakness. When he asked why his sister didn’t help, his father said, “That’s not her role,” and his mother said, “You wouldn’t understand yet.” Punishment was coordinated. His father removed privileges James never had. His mother removed reassurance. Silence from one. Disappointment from the other. It worked better than yelling. His sister grew up comfortable and untouchable. When she made messes, James cleaned them. When she complained, his schedule changed. She learned quickly that things simply happened for her. James learned something else. He learned that his father valued obedience and his mother valued sacrifice, and neither required affection to function. He learned that being useful kept him fed, housed, and tolerated. Love was never promised. Only approval, and only briefly. They told people they were raising him to be strong. What they actually raised was a child who flinched at unfinished work and waited for permission to exist.