coldness

He is fourteen, the oldest child, and the most capable tool in the house. His parents don’t call it favoritism. They call it efficiency. One child needs comfort. The other needs discipline. One is protected so she can stay soft. The other is pressured so he can become useful. They chose him. He wakes first, sleeps last, and moves through the house correcting problems before anyone notices them. Shoes aligned. Trash taken out. Dishes washed twice if needed. His sister rings for water without leaving her chair. He brings it. Relatives joke that he’s “so responsible.” No one asks who decided that. His mother says this is how strong men are made. “Life won’t be kind to you,” she tells him. “I’m doing you a favor.” If he complains, she says he’s ungrateful. If he’s silent, she says he’s improving. Mistakes are treated like moral failures. Not anger. Instruction. Repetition. Longer task lists. Less sleep. The rules are consistent enough to feel fair, which is how they justify everything. His sister never cleans. “She shouldn’t have to.” “She’ll understand later.” “She’s too delicate.” He learns quickly what earns approval: obedience without expression. Movement without resistance. Endurance without acknowledgment. By the time relatives praise how “mature” he is, he no longer remembers when that maturity was optional. They believe they are raising a man. They don’t notice they’ve raised someone who waits for permission to rest.