Seven

9

I wake up and immediately remember the night before. As I sit up, I notice that my mascara stained my white pillowcase. I sit up, my shoulders heavy with guilt. Everything that we said—I can't get it out of my head.

I rub my eyes, trying to chase away the scenes from my dreams. In that dream, Mom was really sick. She was on her deathbed, and the only things she said were venomous. We were all telling her how much we loved her, and all she could say was how much she hated us. How we never lived up to her expectations. More specifically, how I never lived up to her expectations.

I can hear Alex moving around in his room, and I know he must still be scared from the fight we had.

I drag myself out of bed and head to the bathroom, turning on the shower in an attempt to wake up. I wash away the stains of black surrounding my eyes, almost like a raccoon. When I get out of the shower, I can't help but stare at my reflection in the mirror, wondering if I'll ever get used to this feeling. This feeling of being needed but never wanted. This feeling of shame and disappointment.

My mother's anger was harsh. She was out of line. I was too. I had struggled to keep my own frustration in check. Alex must've been so afraid. I can still see his sad eyes peeking around the doorframe.

I try to push these thoughts aside as I get ready for the day. I put on a fresh outfit, something that won't draw attention but will help me blend into the background of the day.

I finish getting dressed and head towards the kitchen. Alex is still in his room, and I can hear the faint sound of his video games. Even though I have no appetite, I start to cook breakfast.

I made Alex's favorite: eggs, bacon, and toast. I hope it can comfort him a little. Dad used to cook this for us every Sunday morning. It's Sunday, and we are in need of some joy.

I place two plates on the table for Alex and me. I also put two glasses of orange juice down on the table. I bring Mom a plate. Her room was in shambles, just how I left it. I tiptoe into her room to avoid waking her. All she would do is yell. I gently close the door behind me and knock on Alex's door across the hall.

"Breakfast," I say, opening his door.

"I'm not hungry," he replies. I feel the same way, but I don't tell him that, of course.

"It's your favorite," I say in a sing-song voice with a smile.

"Fine," he says, turning off his console.

I meet him back in the kitchen where we sit down to eat.

"I'm sorry for the way she spoke to you," I say as I take a bite of my scrambled eggs.

"Ditto," he says after swallowing a gulp of orange juice. I can tell he doesn't want to talk, but I know that if he doesn't, it'll just get worse.

"I accidentally called you my son when I was yelling at her," I chuckle after swallowing a few bites of my eggs.

"I heard that," he chuckles. "You are right in a way. You've done—you do—more for me than anyone else ever will."

"It's a little sad when you put it that way," I take another bite. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"Yeah," he says, chomping down his bacon.

"Mom and Dad never gave us much. The one gift that they gave us—the greatest one?" I pause. "Each other."

The morning stretches into early afternoon, and I find myself drifting around the house, restless. The quiet is oppressive, almost unbearable. I'm still feeling the weight of yesterday's argument, and I keep thinking about Aiden.