When my father came into the room and asked why I was taking so long, I didn’t even try to hide the folder.
His face paled, but he didn’t deny it.
“It’s complicated,” he said.
No explanation. No apology.
Then Mom came in. Her response was somehow worse.
“You have a good job, Jacob,” she said gently. “You’re strong. Eric… he struggles. We just want to make sure he’s taken care of.”
That was the moment I knew—I wasn’t a son in their eyes.
I was a safety net.
A backup plan.
