The power strip clicks. My monitors go dark.
"What the—" I spin in my chair. Dad stands by my desk, hand still on the power switch, looking smug.
"Two hours," he says. "I want the garage cleaned and those dishes done."
"I was in the middle of—"
"A game." He doesn't raise his voice. Somehow that's worse. "Meanwhile, your brother's made senior agent at his firm. But please, enlighten me about your . . ." He waves vaguely at my setup, "work."
"It's called content creation, Dad. But sure, let's celebrate Matt's soul-crushing corporate success." I prop my feet on my desk, swallowing down the part of me that actually knows something about marketing analytics from all these streams. "Did he get another fun spreadsheet to fill out? A really exciting quarterly report?"
"This isn't funny, Caleb." Something flickers across Dad's face, and his fingers drum against my desk once, twice, like he's counting to ten in his head. "You think I was playing around at your age? I had a pregnant wife and bills to pay. I didn't get to just . . ." He catches himself, jaw tightening.
"Sorry I'm not living up to the American Dream circa 1985."
"Look, I've spent thirty years watching rich guys in suits profit off my crews' sweat," Dad says, his voice gruff but with something else underneath. "Wanted my boys to be the onesinthe office, not . . ." He gestures at himself. At the calluses and weathered skin from decades of site work. "But hey, you do what you want."
All Iwantis one day without someone reminding me I'm wasting my life. One day to just play my game without the weight of everyone's disappointment.
"Two hours." His voice is clipped. "And your mother'sworried."
He drags a hand down his face, and for a second, I see how tired he looks. The lines around his eyes run deeper than they did last year, mapping out territories of stress I helped create. It almost makes me feel bad.
"Mom's worried about everything."
"Because her twenty-six-year-old son is still acting like he's got all the time in the world." He pauses, something heavy in his voice. "Trust me, you don't."
"Yeah, well, rent's expensive and the economy's shit." I reach for my power strip. "But please, tell me more about how you bought a house on a single income while dinosaurs roamed the earth."
He doesn't respond. Just gives me a look that says I'm somehow both exactly what he expected, and still somehow a disappointment, before leaving the door open behind him, as if he's daring me to slam it first.
I wait until his footsteps fade before plugging in my computer and the LED lights Dad calls "a waste of electricity" back in. The chat's probably going crazy, but honestly? I'm not in the mood to perform anymore.
"Sorry guys, gonna have to cut this one short." I end the stream without my usual outro. "Family aggro, you know how it is."
Except they don't. Because I don't tell them. Because some things don't need to be content.
I pull up my phone, thumbing through the notifications I've been ignoring.
Three messages from my brother Matt about the wedding. Something about suit fittings and plus-ones, and how Sarah's parents want pictures with the whole Miller clan. Like we're some perfect family straight out of Southern Living magazine.
I click on his contact picture—him in his Boston office, all pressed suit and perfect smile. Sometimes I barely recognize him as the same guy who cranked pop-punk out of his garage band's blown speakers,or who'd let me hang around even though his friends thought babysitting his kid brother was lame. The same Matt who caught me smoking behind the gym sophomore year and, instead of telling Dad, just said, "At least do it right," and taught me how to hold the cigarette so I wouldn't look like such a dumbass.
I remember the night he snuck me some weed before that house party junior year. Daphne accidentally got high, and it was the funniest thing ever. But that was back when Matt was stillMatt. Still the guy who'd cover for me with Dad, and who convinced me to try out for football because, "You're built like a tank, dumbass. Might as well use it."
Now he isMatthew.
And I'm just . . . here.
When he left for Boston, he promised nothing would change. "Still your asshole big brother," he'd said, punching my arm. He’d promised he wouldn't leave me here. Then he did. And the worst part? I don't think he even remembers saying it.
Now he needs his "partner in crime" for wedding photos. Funny how brotherhood works when you need a matching suit for the album.
I close his messages without responding.
Ever since Matt moved away, Dad's critiques got sharper, more frequent. As if having one success story meant the other son had to make up for lost disappointment. These days, I can't even remember what his approval felt like.
"Honey?" Mom appears in my doorway, wearing her favorite cardigan with bright flowers. There's flour dusted across her cheek, and she's carrying a plate of what can only be her famous peanut butter cookies. The ones that could solve world peace if she ever shared the recipe.
