“Tell Mom what she did to you.”
I rock back on my heels, heart pounding. “It doesn’t matter.”
He squeezes my hand. Hard. “It does.”
“She won’t listen.”
“But you need to tell her anyway.”
He holds my eyes and I sigh. “Giving advice to your big brother?”
“It’s my prerogative as the younger and more good-looking sibling.” He squeezes again. “Tell her. I need you to tell her.”
That gets me, likely in the way he knew it would.
So, I nod.
And then I turn to my mom.
She won’t hear me, not really. The words, my life, it will always be background noise to her.
“I need you to stop and listen to me.” Her eyes flash and she shoves at my chest, but I don’t move. And I don’t stop talking. Because Blake needs this…and I guess, some part of me needs it too. “Do you understand how you’ve nearly broken both of us? Do you understand that your obsession with Blake’s health makes it almost impossible for him to live a full life?”
“He needs?—”
“To live, Mom. To take pleasure in what he can do. Not what he can’t. And you need to get a fucking life.” Before she can reply, I go on, “Your life can’t be living for him?—”
“I don’t?—”
“Tell me one thing you’ve done in the last two decades that hasn’t involved Blake.”
Her mouth snaps closed, eyes flashing.
“You certainly don’t have any hobbies or any friends. Fuck, Dad has spent most of those years—when he’s graced us with his presence, that is—checked out.”
“Frank,” she snaps.
But my dad barely lifts his head from his phone. “What?”
She glares. “Say something!”
“Respect your mother,” he replies dutifully.
Then looks right back at his phone.
My mom makes a sound of fury, but I’m not done.
Blake’s right.
It’s beyond time.
“You smothered him and neglected me. You can barely look at me, can barely acknowledge my presence. I spent most of my life desperate for you to pay attention to me, to fucking love me, and it hurts, Mom. It hurts that you can’t seem to do the bare fucking minimum.”
I exhale, shove down the vitriol that wants to escape.
I won’t be that person.
No, I’ll be better.
