not support

At fourteen, James’s life had a schedule written by other people. The house was his responsibility. Floors, laundry, dishes, grocery runs, trash—everything flowed through him. If anything faltered, he would hear it. If anything succeeded, he would not. His siblings were free to be children. To play, to watch TV, to laugh without consequence. His mother treated him like an extension of the household: efficient, silent, obedient. Praise was measured, rare, and never personal. “You’re strong,” she would say. “You’re capable.” Which meant: “You are not allowed to complain.” “You exist to keep everyone else comfortable.” His father enforced the rules quietly. Orders weren’t optional. Curiosity was inconvenient. Any hint of frustration was labeled “immaturity” or “laziness.” Birthdays were ignored. Personal desires were irrelevant. Electronics, toys, treats—they were for his siblings. James’s childhood was spent in service, not celebration. He learned to anticipate needs before they were spoken. To move silently. To carry heavy loads without acknowledgment. He learned to smile when asked and to fade when not. The cruelest twist wasn’t the work itself. It was that they called it love, responsibility, or preparation. They never saw that he didn’t feel proud. He felt invisible. By the time he realized that his life was only ever meant to support others, he was already conditioned to do it without question. And when his parents praised his sister for completing a chore he had done hours earlier, he learned that effort mattered only when it benefited them—and even then, only in their eyes.