At nine years old, I learned that family wasn’t forever. It wasn’t warm, or safe, or some sacred thing that wrapped you up and carried you through life. It was fragile. Conditional. Something that cracked under pressure and, if you were unlucky, shattered completely.
The divorce split us like bad business partners cutting losses. Mom got me and Ryan, the baby. Dad took Nicky, his favorite, the golden boy, the one who looked like him, the one who still had that soft, lovable glow. And just like that, we weren’t three brothers anymore—we were factions.
Dad fought for us. He wanted to keep us together, to make sure we didn’t turn into statistics or cautionary tales. But because it was something he wanted, Mom made sure it didn’t happen. That was her way. If you wanted something, she’d burn it to the ground before letting you have it. I don’t think it was personal. It was just who she was.
She had nothing—no skills, no real education—just a sharp tongue and a pretty face that was still getting her places. She worked reception jobs, barely, coming home exhausted and sour. And when she worked, I watched Ryan. That was my job. Not that I wanted it.
Ryan spent most of his time in his crib. For so long, on his back, his head went flat. His ears started pushing out like he was trying to hear something that wasn’t there. I’d pick him up when he cried, feed him when I remembered, but mostly, I just let him be. He was just another part of the house, like the furniture.
The house itself was a wreck. Always. The floor was a minefield of dirty laundry, forgotten dishes, and toys that belonged to no one. The kitchen smelled like stale grease, like something had burned long ago and no one bothered to clean it. She never had time to clean, never had the energy, never had the will. That was my job too, or at least it was supposed to be. I’d wait until 30 minutes before she got home, then race around the house, wiping down surfaces just enough to keep her from screaming.
We ate like kings, though. At least, that’s what she told us. She had a system at the grocery store, swapping price tags so we could feast on steak while paying for ground beef. “We might be poor, but we’re eating steak tonight,” she’d say with a grin, dropping the fillet onto a grease-caked skillet that hadn’t been cleaned in days.
Sometimes, she actually tried to be a mom. One Christmas, she got Nicky a banana seat bike. It was beautiful. Shiny chrome, black grips, a long banana seat that made him look like the coolest kid on the block. He rode it up and down the street, grinning so hard it looked like his face would break.
Two weeks later, he came back from Dad’s, ran to the garage to grab his bike—and it was gone.
She fed him some story about it being stolen. Maybe she even believed it for a second. But the truth? She took it back for the cash. Just like everything else. Play, enjoy, return. That was her version of parenting. Give them something, just enough to feel happy for a moment, then snatch it away before it turns into something real.
Nicky didn’t cry. He just nodded. He understood. We all did.
Weekends with Dad were different. He didn’t take us to discos or swap price tags at the grocery store. He wasn’t exciting, but he was solid. And when you grow up without stability, solidity becomes its own kind of magic. He worked nights at the post office, steady and quiet, a man who did what needed to be done. On the weekends, he was ours. We’d do normal things—mow the lawn, play catch, eat dinner at the table like families were supposed to. He never let us know how tired he was.
But weekdays were for Mom. And weekdays were chaos.
One afternoon, bored and restless, I found a lighter in her room. There was a loose string on the edge of Ryan’s baby blanket. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe just to see what would happen. Maybe because destruction had been woven into my DNA.
I flicked the lighter. The string caught, the flame raced across the fabric like it had been waiting for the invitation. The blanket darkened, shriveled, and Ryan—still lying on top of it—started screaming.
I panicked. Smothered the flames with my hands, leaving black scorch marks and the sour scent of burnt polyester in the air.
Mom came home to the smell of smoke, a crying baby, and me, standing there with my hands in my pockets, trying to act like I didn’t know what the hell just happened.
That was the end of my babysitting career.
But it didn’t change anything. The house stayed the same. The roles stayed the same. Ryan in his crib, me watching over him like a bored prison guard, Mom gone more than she was home.
Nothing made sense in those years, but that was the way of things. The illusion of normalcy would surface just long enough to make us think we were okay. And then, like the bike, like the steak, like anything good we ever touched, it would disappear.
We survived. We got older. We carried the weight.
And sometimes, on quiet nights, I still wonder what would’ve happened if the flames had spread, if I hadn’t snuffed them out in time. If I had burned that whole goddamn house to the ground, would any of it have been different?
Or was it always meant to be this way?
