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She finally corners him about his little slip about a week later when they’re curled up on her couch, mindlessly watching the TV and trying, just for a moment, not to think about how fast everything’s going downhill.
About how, soon, she’ll likely be forced to leave the country and he’ll help her, risking his own safety, precarious as it is, in the process. Because it would kill him to stand back and see the government, the system and laws he’s spent his whole life wanting to support and build better, be abused in such horrifying, cruel ways.
Because it would destroy him to see her hurt and know he did nothing to stop it.
She pauses the TV in the middle of the laughter soundtrack meant to mimic a live audience, the abrupt silence startlingly loud between the two of them.
Shifting to look at him, she brings up the topic that’s been bothering her since the words were said; accidentally shared during one of their Therapy Nights where they watched television and played muggle games like Super Mario Bros and Monopoly that inevitably descended into friendly screaming matches and a few thrown remotes.
Where they ranted about everything from stepping in a puddle and suffering wet socks to sometimes wanting to go to sleep and never wake up. They laughed about inconveniences and poor mental health and all their trauma and anxieties and problems. It was like group therapy but minus the therapist and with a much more nonchalant approach to their problems and, frequently, copious amounts of alcohol.
That particular night, however, something a little more serious, an unspoken piece of his issues that they’d previously steered clear of, slipped from an exhausted, weary mind and between lips loosened with a little too much alcohol and the trust that forced his guard down around her.
And now, although it somewhat broke tradition to bring up something that was said under the What Happens On Therapy Night Stays In Therapy Night rule, she feels like she should at least open the conversation up for if he needs a shoulder to lean on before she won’t be there to do so anymore.
“Hey,” she begins softly, meeting his eyes and trying to convey understanding and care through her gaze. “What you said last week, about your family-”
She breaks off with a slightly sad, frustrated look at how visibly uncomfortable he’s becoming and places a hand on his arm to still the unconscious picking at his sleeves.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I don’t mean to push or force you if you’re not ready. But I do think it would be good to talk about, if you want to, and just-”
She lets out a little huff before meeting his eyes with a new conviction. “I love you. And I care about you, and I’m always here to talk or just for company if you ever need it. I hope you know that by now, but I wanted to tell you just in case.
“So if you ever feel like talking about your family or how you feel like they hate you then I’m here to listen.”
She means this to be reassuring but instead he gets this furrow between his brow that means he’s confused about something and is overthinking trying to figure it out.
He crosses his arms, gripping them tightly and looking more defensive than anything else. Meeting her eyes, he speaks for the first time in response to her attempts at support.
“I didn’t say they hated me. I’ve never thought they hated me. Even now, I don’t think they truly hate me. Hate is too strong, too consuming and poisonous and cruel for whatever negative emotions they hold for me - and I’m sure there are many.”
He shifts a little bit, settling in for a long conversation, finally utilizing the chance to fully explain the complicated tangle of feelings and problems and insecurities he has toward his family.
“Hate is reserved for people you actively wish the worst upon and with whom you share a stronger conflict than petty childhood arguments and political differences. Hatred is for the man who murdered your wife, the woman who tortured your parents, the one who calls for sweeping acts of racist, bigoted violence; for the monsters and sadists who just want to watch the world burn.”
He doesn’t sound fierce, necessarily, in this belief, in trying to explain that he knows his family doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t really sound like he doubts it either. He sounds clinical and detached and mostly just tired.
“It is too heavy a burden to bear, too exhausting a fire to fuel to waste on an argument such as ours. To hate someone requires you to care enough to do so and, honestly, I’m not sure my family has ever cared enough about my life for it to turn to hate now that we’re fighting.”
He looks at her with a wry smile that makes her stomach churn with the picture he is painting of his family’s dynamic. Of his idea of his place within his family and their dynamic.
But he continues on, matter-of-fact as ever, simply disproving an inaccuracy she made and nothing else.
“So no, I don’t think they hate me.”
She finds her voice and asks, just to clarify, because there’s a large difference between not hating someone and actively caring about them.
“So what, they don’t hate you but they just don’t love you?”
He furrows his brow and looks at her like he genuinely can’t understand what logic could possibly result in such a conclusion.
“Of course they love me -'' he sounded vaguely offended, “ they’re my family.”
Before the relief can fully settle in her chest that maybe she was wrong - that maybe she was misreading the signals and all the little inconsistencies and tension about his family was just about The Argument and not some long-standing trauma or self-worth issues - he explains why he believes his family loves him and the relief turns to a pit in her stomach.
“I’ve never thought that they don’t love me. I’m their brother, their son; it’s hard not to care about someone you’ve known so closely and for so long and they are not the type of people to withhold all sense of affection without very good reason.”
He begins to become more animated in his defense of the people who raised him.
“They are not so callous or unfeeling as to just not love their family , even if the family member in question is someone with whom they generally don’t get along.
“I’ve never doubted my family loves me,” he pauses and takes a breath before revealing the crux of the matter.
“But I’m not sure any of them ever particularly liked me.” The fire diminishes, leaving him once again looking wrung out and exhausted and now a little lost, like a child who knows someone’s upset at them but can’t quite figure out why.
“They love me because we are family; because I am related to them and that’s how you are supposed to feel towards those with whom you share blood; because my parents have known me my entire life and I am their son and they raised me; because my siblings have known me, for the most part, their entire lives and we grew up together; because we have shared a home and toys and clothes and food; because together we have celebrated over a dozen Christmases and Halloweens and birthdays; because I have been a constant figure in their lives for so many years and it is almost impossible not to love, at least a little bit, someone who has been there for so much and for so long.”
He sounds so achingly, sorrowfully sure of himself when he says this - listing reasons why people love him that have nothing to do with himself, only obligation.
“If we didn’t share those experiences, however - if we weren’t related, if we didn’t grow up together - I don’t think I’m the type of person with whom they would ever willingly want to interact.”
She can feel her heart constrict at how much longing she can hear in his voice for the opposite to be true. How much his perception of his family’s attitude hurts him but how absolutely certain he is that it’s the truth.
“They love me because that is what they are supposed to do, because that is what our experiences have meant they cannot help but do. My personality and temperament - my interests and idiosyncrasies and all the little things that make me me - those have always been more a hindrance than an aid in that affection.”
The smile he gives this time is brittle and ugly and a perfect mask for all the times he’s likely felt this way around his family. She can see, suddenly, where she never could before, why someone might think him cold if this was the face he used around them. If this fragile armor was the only way he allowed himself to be interacted with by people he thought might hurt him, intentionally or not.
“They care about me in spite of who I am, not because of it.” And he sounds so tired when he says this, as if he’d tried for too long to change himself to fit what he thought they might like and gave it up as hopeless too long ago.
“Is that what led to your argument, you were upset that it felt like they only cared out of obligation?” The divide with his family has always been a little murky to her.
She got in screaming matches with her siblings almost every day as a child but they’d never been something that couldn’t be brushed off the next day, no matter what names they called each other. And they were creative, vicious children when they wanted to be.
He doesn’t seem to connect The Argument to his internalized perception of his family’s attitudes toward him.
“Upset? Why would I be upset?”
“Well, you said-”
“I can’t fault them for this. Sometimes people just don’t get along, some personalities just don’t click and that’s no one’s fault, that’s just how it is. Being mad at them for our personalities clashing is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You wouldn’t be mad at someone for not liking the taste of tomatoes, it’s ridiculous! You can’t force people to feel things that they don’t and you can’t be mad at someone when they don’t like someone they just don’t.”
He appears entirely genuine in explaining why his family never liking him isn’t their fault. While his logic isn’t necessarily faulty, it breaks her heart nonetheless that over the years he’s had to explain away their stilted affection like this.
“They didn’t do anything wrong, they didn’t disregard some familial obligation or anything, I know they still loved me, we just didn’t get along. It’s a little sad, sure, but it’s not something that can be changed so it’s not worth getting worked up over.”
And she just can’t keep it in any longer. She’s spent too much time looking at psychology books and making jokes about her own poor mental health not to realize there is something seriously fucked up about all this.
“Yeah, um, I don’t know how to tell you this, but what you’re talking about sounds a lot like some of what I’ve read about emotional neglect.”
And, oh , that hits a mark.
He looks like she slapped him and, hands trembling, nearly yells when he replies.
“I was not abused as a child! My parents, for all their faults, loved their children fiercely and would never in a thousand years have done something to harm us. They are good people and would more likely fight the parent in question than condone such a thing.”
“I didn’t say you were abused,” she hurries to soothe, knowing he could completely shut the conversation down if he felt too uncomfortable, too defensive of himself and his family. “I said you show signs and thought processes similar to people who suffered emotional isolation or neglect as a child.”
Despite trying to choose her words more carefully, he does not seem to calm down, speaking sharply in a tightly controlled voice.
“I was not ignored or forgotten or cast aside or whatever asinine idea you somehow have in your mind of my childhood. My family, my parents, are better people than you’re giving them credit for and I won’t hear you demean them in such a way.”
He sounded angrier than she’d possibly ever heard him; more upset defending his family than when he described how he had always felt as if they only cared about him out of obligation.
“They never shied away from telling me they loved me, they never forgot a birthday or presents on Christmas, they always said they were proud when I showed them I accomplished something. They may have had many children, but they always did their best to spend time with all of us and make sure we knew we were wanted; they did everything they were supposed to as parents.”
Like supporting your child is as simple as checking a few boxes and making sure to say I love you on schedule , she thinks a little meanly.
“That’s not what I’m saying. I have no doubt they were good parents and that they loved you all, however, I think that sometimes this didn’t always translate directly with their actions.” She tries to think of a way to put it diplomatically but so that he’ll still understand the problem with the way he was raised.
“It wasn’t intentional and it wasn’t about which children they liked better, it was simply that, as a child, you didn’t seem to need as much attention or hand-holding as some of your siblings.
“You are a serious person by nature, and I think this was true even as a child. Your siblings on the other hand, although I’ve never met them, I’ve certainly heard about their exploits: the infamous twins, of course, Ron who didn’t seem to seek out trouble as much as stumbled into it, and your spitfire little sister who, from all accounts, has never met a problem she hasn’t tried to solve with her fists.”
She smiles as she says this, trying to show she doesn’t mean these descriptions as insults, that she is mostly charmed by the stories she’s heard. That she isn’t criticizing his family who she knows he has problems with but would never stand to hear slandered.
“They must have been a hell of a headache for your mom. Whereas you,” she reaches out and bops him on the nose with a finger, “rule-abiding, anxious to please, ever so serious little you, who hates conflict and loves to feel useful - you would have been something of a breeze to corral in comparison.
“You seemed to be doing well: you followed the rules, never got in trouble, put your all into any chore or task you were put to. You were successful and smart and capable and so your needs sometimes fell by the wayside because you didn’t seem to need it.”
She looks in his eyes as she tries to impress upon him that she’s not blaming his family but what he felt was wrong and sad and she’s upset for him.
“It’s a sad but all too common occurrence in large families or families with a disabled child where the need to care for the ones who appear to need it most lead to the neglect of the other with the assumption that they’re fine.”
Please understand , she thinks. Please know that it wasn’t that you weren’t enough. It wasn’t that you are unlikeable or too difficult to get along with.
Please, please see that.
“I think your parents might have fallen into this trap. And, although you may not even consciously realize it, I think you often felt neglected and forgotten by your family.”
Because he needs to recognize the impact these feelings have had on his life and why she was so upset with his upbringing.
“It shows in your behavior and the way you talk about them and your interactions.”
She ticks off the things she knows he’s been criticized for the most, the things that are apparent at first glance, the things that took her the longest to break through.
“The way you became a veritable peacock about hard accomplishments like grades and your job, always looking for attention and respect that you couldn’t seem to figure out how to get any other way.”
He opens his mouth to protest but she holds up a hand in silent request to be allowed to finish her point because he needs to hear this.
“The way you’re so closed off about almost everything else, handling everything on your own because it was unconsciously impressed on you that others won’t care or they’ll be too busy to celebrate with or help you through something.
“You did this with me, at first, before we got really close, but it’s especially pronounced with your family.” She looks a little sad as she adds this observation.
Reaching out and grabbing his hands, she squeezes them, trying to show she’s not being cruel but she wants him to hear what she has to say, even if it’s not easy to listen to.
“You never went to them with the softer milestones, the everyday things that still mattered but were harder to point to and say: Look. I did that. I accomplished something, aren’t you proud?
“All the little things that were less tangible achievements but still so important and impactful to you and your life.”
She tries to put a little cheer, a gentle tease into her voice to lighten the mood and draw him back out of the shell he’d retreated into.
“Things like your first crush, your first girlfriend, when you realized maybe you weren’t as straight as you always claimed to be.”
She sobers a little and continues on.
“When you found a book on psychology and spent hours researching symptoms of anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder to finally put a name to all those times you felt like you couldn’t breathe or your skin was crawling for no rational reason.”
I’ve spent hours with you going over therapist recommendations and tricks for how to best cope with anxiety disorders, does your family even know that you struggle with them , she wants to scream. Did they ever notice or think to ask , she wants to demand.
“When you made a stupid mistake on an assignment that cost you enough points to only get an E and you spent two hours shaking in the bathroom, just trying to breathe through, what you would later learn, was an anxiety attack.”
She sits up straighter, her words and tone becoming stronger in response to the anger and helplessness she feels at the situation.
“Do they have any idea what your hobbies are outside of work and school? Do they know that you love fictional stories with intricate world-building or that you can spend hours watching shitty muggle sitcoms?”
He gives a wet laugh that’s more a huff of air than anything, but it’s the first he’s reacted in a while and it eases something in her.
“Friends is amazing,” he argues.
“Friends is amazing,” she concedes, “but have they ever seen you grumble about your unfortunate crush on Joey or loudly declare that Phoebe is too good for this world?”
He looks a little bemused, contemplating the idea of his family, his siblings seeing him show interest in normal things and how they would react.
“Or when you tried making éclairs for the third time and finally got the choux pastry to puff perfectly and were so excited you called me in the middle of the night to try them because you forgot what time it was?”
She smiles a little bit because that’s one of her favorite memories of him. Calling at two am, flour on his arms and just the tiniest smudge of dough on the edge of his glasses from where he’d pushed them up while piping.
“It took you years until you were comfortable enough with me to ask for help or even just company when you needed it. Although few and far between, you have come to me in the middle of the night for help coming down from a particularly bad anxiety attack, have you ever done that with anyone in your family?”
He doesn’t have a response because the answer, of course, is no.
“You internalized the idea of not being a burden, not bothering them with the unimportant things to such a degree that you’re almost totally isolated from them apart from a two-dimensional caricature of your actual self.”
He looks like she’s saying something he’s expected for a long time and she really wants to punch a lot of people for making him prone to always believing the worst about himself so she hurries to make him understand.
“And I’m not saying this is your fault because it’s not, but it is something for which both you and your family, and your collective communication skills, are somewhat culpable.”
I am not blaming you , she tries to express. Don’t feel guilty about coping mechanisms you felt you had to build up to protect yourself. Don’t ever apologize to me for that.
“You were a quiet, unobtrusive, academically-inclined middle child of a very large family. In the chaos of so many siblings demanding attention, sometimes you got lost among the other voices because you never yelled quite as loud. You were self-sufficient and independent for your age, you were remarkably mature and excelled in traditional measurements of success - reading, writing, and so on - and you just never seemed to need as much attention.”
She says the next part for herself as well, because although she knows it’s not just his family’s fault either, she still resolves to punch at least one of them if she ever gets the chance.
“It wasn’t favoritism or maliciousness; it was simply two parents doing their best with limited time and too many kids to always give them all the attention they deserved.
“It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but it was so very human and they were only doing their best. Perhaps they could have done more to ensure you were supported better and perhaps you could have spoken up more when you felt as if you were becoming an afterthought in your family, but, in the end, it wasn’t something for which you can point to one person as responsible.”
She can see that she’s getting through to him, the slightly glazed look that means he’s trying to evaluate every interaction he’s ever had with his family and analyze it through the new lens she’s given him.
“You learned, under the responsibility of four younger siblings and the teenage rebellion of two older, to be as unproblematic as possible. To always follow the rules, to be an example and an enforcer because your parents couldn’t do it all and you’ve seen them, in the quiet moments where they forget you’re there because you were never as loud or as noticeable as your siblings, exhausted and fragile and just needing one minute of respite from the chaos around them.”
Again she begins listing the attributes she knows he’s struggled with most, that have led to the most conflict with others and even with himself.
“To get good grades and a good job, one that they’ll be proud of and won’t cause any conflict about danger or distance the way you’ve seen from your brothers before.
“To look the part and dress cleanly and professionally and to keep your hair short and your skin unmarked no matter how much you sometimes wish for a tattoo or piercing.”
She looks genuinely frustrated at this note, thinking about how most days he seems happy and comfortable with the slightly formal feel to his appearance but how some days he’d look at someone with a shaggy haircut and piercings and rings and appear so longing it hurts .
“You’ve told me how you would look if you didn’t care what anyone thought and while I don’t think you’re uncomfortable with how you look now, I wonder if anyone would recognize you if you dressed without regard to norms or expectations.”
She drags her argument away from the tangent she wants to go down and tries to refind her main point.
“You’ve learned to only bring up the parts of you that you think they can’t find fault with, that won’t cause conflict or add to their stress. That, as you grew older and the divide with your siblings widened, wouldn’t invite derision or jeers.”
She doesn’t dislike his family necessarily, but she does really want to scream at them. They didn’t try to be cruel or distant or make him feel the way he does, but they did and she thinks she’ll always be a little bitter about that probably. At least until she ever gets the chance to meet them and actually get them to acknowledge everything that’s happened.
She looks at the very tired and very repressed man across from her and thinks, get them all to see and come to terms with it.
“You show off your grades, your positions of leadership, the job you got working in government and are careful to keep the rest tucked away like a dirty secret.
Like they won’t understand or won’t care or, worse, will mock you for the realization that you are human.”
She takes a breath to remind herself, not anyone’s fault, be objective even if all she wanted to do was scream and maybe get a little drunk but mostly just make him smile.
“You didn’t volunteer the information and they didn’t ask and, eventually, you became so closed off it never occurred to you that anyone might care about those things.”
She looks unbearably sad as she says this and he looks distinctly uncomfortable with being called out in such a way, but she continues regardless.
“That’s why it took you so long to open up when we became friends. Why it took years till you trusted me with your baking and TV addiction and to help with your attacks.”
She goes in for the kill.
“You were so used to never being anyone’s first priority, you didn’t know how to react when someone cared enough to make you theirs.”
He looks like she just punched him in the face.
“You’ve basically gone most of your life without any strong emotional support network and are just now getting used to having people around you who aggressively care and want to interact with you in a positive way.”
She presses her forehead against his, emotionally worn out from trying to piece together years of his emotional trauma.
“I love you, and I’m always here for you, but I think things with your family may not be as cut and dry as you think.”
She smiles at the lost, but almost hopeful look on his face, and settles against him, pressing play on the TV once more.
He wasn’t ready to continue discussing it and certainly wasn’t ready to broach the issue of ever reaching out to his family again and she wouldn’t push anymore.
“Just think about it, ok?”
He seemed a little overwhelmed, but slowly put an arm around her, staring at the screen with glazed eyes, thinking about the emotional upheaval just unveiled.
“ Thank you.”
Quietly, a few minutes later, she heard the whisper, so full of raw emotion and gratitude, and curled more tightly around him as they watched the easy entertainment of late-night sitcoms.