I was the son. Which in my father’s mind should have meant heir, extension, second self. But because I did not admire him in the right way, because I did not perform gratitude loudly enough, because I liked silence and systems and competence more than bravado, I became something else in his imagination. Useful when I complied. Offensive when I resisted. He liked telling people I was smart, but only in public and only if my intelligence could be framed as his accomplishment. At home, intelligence from me became arrogance the moment it disagreed with him.
Lily was nine years younger than me and should have been protected by that, but children in families like ours are not protected by age. They are simply assigned different vulnerabilities. She learned early to make herself small. To read footstep patterns. To notice the way our mother’s mouth flattened when our father came home in a mood. To judge whether Madison wanted admiration or an audience. Lily became watchful in the way kids do when they have not yet accepted that the adults around them are not safe.