elias

At fourteen, Elias lived in a house that believed in balance. Or at least that’s what his parents said. His father handled structure. Rules were announced at dinner like policy updates. Responsibilities increased with age. Privileges were earned, not given. Elias, as the oldest, was the test case. His mother handled meaning. She framed every restriction as care. She spoke about character, future success, and how boys needed limits more than comfort. When Elias questioned the difference between him and his sister, she smiled and said, “Comparison is a sign of immaturity.” Elias did all the chores. Laundry, floors, dishes, trash, yard work. Not because his sister couldn’t help, but because she “should stay focused on being a child.” He wasn’t paid. Allowance would weaken discipline. Electronics were restricted until further notice. His sister’s screen time was monitored gently, then forgotten. What made it darker was consistency. There were no explosions. No shouting. Just calm enforcement. Missed tasks led to quiet consequences. Access removed. Privileges delayed. Every conversation ended with the same line: “This is for your own good.” The twist arrived slowly. Elias realized there was no finish line. Every time he met expectations, the standard shifted. More chores. Less freedom. His father called it growth. His mother called it refinement. One night, he overheard them talking. “He’s strong enough to handle it,” his mother said. “That’s why we push him,” his father replied. They weren’t unaware. They were intentional. By the time Elias stopped asking for his phone back, stopped noticing the unfairness, stopped expecting reward, his parents were satisfied. They hadn’t raised a problem child. They had raised a compliant one