Something cracked inside me, and once it started I could not stop it.
I asked them if they were genuinely telling me that they had canceled my graduation party because my twenty-one-year-old brother had a tantrum. My mother crossed her arms and said I was being dramatic. She said Brandon had lost an important professional opportunity and that I should try to have a little empathy.
That word. I had to hold very still for a moment after she said it.
Empathy was the word they had been using to manage me my entire life. When Brandon failed a class, I was told not to mention my own grades because it would make him feel bad and empathy meant understanding how that felt. When he monopolized every common space in the house for his own comfort, empathy meant recognizing that he needed room. When he ruined Thanksgiving three years running with his attitude and his grievances, empathy meant not provoking him. When he got into trouble, empathy meant appreciating the pressure he was under. Empathy, in our house, was the word used to explain why I should always need less than he did.
I told them I was done pretending this was a reasonable way to live. I told them I was tired of being handed Brandon’s leftovers and expected to receive them with gratitude. Tired of being the child who could always understand, always adjust, always make room, while he was permitted to be selfish and loud and impossible without consequence. Tired of acting like the scraps of consideration I received were somehow equal to the enormous and constant investment they made in his feelings.
