Chapter Two
(Evan)
I learned early that wanting things was pointless.
Wanting doesn't change rent.
Wanting doesn't fix broken heaters.
Wanting doesn't give you a father.
Wanting just makes you stupid.
My mom says my name like it's something precious. Like she didn't drag it through every cheap apartment and overworked night in this city. Like it didn't grow up hearing collection calls and whispered apologies through thin walls.
"Ev," she says. Soft. Careful. Always careful.
I hate that voice.
I hate how she smiles at me like I'm still worth smiling over. Hate how she touches my shoulder in public like she's proud of me. Hate how people look at us and try to figure out why she's alone.
Or worse, when they think she's my sister.
She laughs when that happens. I don't.
I learned how different we were when I was ten and someone asked me why my dad never came to school stuff. I didn't have an answer. I still don't. Mom said he "wasn't ready." Like that made it okay. Like I was supposed to understand a grown man abandoning a kid he helped make.
Other kids didn't have to understand things like that.
They had dads who picked them up. Moms who weren't always tired. Houses that didn't smell like bleach and fried oil from late-night shifts. They didn't flinch when teachers asked about family.
I started lying young.
Said my dad worked overseas.
Said he was busy.
Said he was dead once, just to see how it felt.
It felt cleaner.
Mom didn't know about the lies. Or maybe she did and pretended not to. She's good at pretending. Pretending she's not exhausted. Pretending my words don't hurt. Pretending love is enough.
It's not.
Love doesn't stop the kids at school from noticing my shoes are always a year old. Love doesn't stop my stomach from twisting when someone invites me over and I know their place will be bigger than ours. Love doesn't stop teachers from looking at me like a statistic they're waiting to see fail.
And love sure as hell doesn't stop her from embarrassing me.
She hugs me like she's afraid I'll vanish. Says my name in that stupid sweet tone. Calls me "my heart" in front of people who don't know what it's like to be broke and watched and pitied.
She doesn't get it.
Every time she touches me, it's like she's reminding the world where I come from.
So yeah, I snap.
I pull away.
I tell her to stop.
Because if I don't push first, I'll drown.
She thinks I don't see what she does for me.
That's the part she gets wrong.
I see everything.
I see the way her hands shake when she counts cash. The way she eats less when I eat more. The way she limps when she thinks I'm not looking. The way she smells like exhaustion and cheap soap and something old and sad.
And I hate it.
I hate that I can't fix it.
I hate that she let it get this bad.
I hate that I exist because of choices she made before I ever had any.
So I make it her fault.
Because if it's her fault, then at least someone chose this.
I don't say thank you when she cooks. I don't look at her when she talks. I don't let her touch me unless I have to. I pretend I don't care because caring feels like losing.
Sometimes, late at night, when the apartment is quiet and I can hear her breathing through the wall, I feel something heavy sit in my chest.
Not guilt.
Something worse.
Fear.
Fear that one day she'll stop trying.
Fear that one day she'll stop loving me out loud.
Fear that I'll finally get the silence I act like I want.
And I don't know what I'd do with that.
So tomorrow, when she asks me how school was, I'll shrug.
When she smiles at me, I'll look away.
When she reaches for me, I'll pull back.
Because this life?
This version of love?
These are things I didn't ask for.
And wanting less hurts less than wanting more.