The only person in my family who ever saw any of it was my brother James. For the first four years after my daughter was born, he would stop by our apartment every Sunday afternoon, often with a bag of groceries or a toy he told Lily she deserved just because she was a kid and kids deserved joy. He would sit at my wobbly kitchen table, his knees bumping against the metal legs, and listen to me talk about lumber prices or the latest disaster on a site.
He never once told me to come home. He never once said I embarrassed him. He hugged me every time he left, whispered that I was doing great, and told me Lily had my stubbornness, which he meant as a compliment.
But James never stayed long. He was always watching the clock, careful not to upset my parents, careful to keep his visits secret. They controlled him the way they had always controlled their children—through guilt and appearances. My sister Laura still lived close to them too, tangled up in their expectations, smiling through pressure she never admitted out loud. My parents liked obedience, and they wielded their reputation like a leash. James was the only one who pulled against it, even a little.