Page 73 of Call You Mine
Guilt punches straight through my chest at the words.
“I just didn’t want to make things harder,” I say, but it sounds thinner now.
“You don’t get extra credit for being the easy kid.” My uncle throws back, not taking any of my excuses. “You don’t get a medal for not asking for anything.”
I swallow, blinking fast. The words land hard.
He’s right. Every single thing he’s saying, I’ve heard before—in therapy, in the quiet moments when I’m honest with myself. And that’s exactly why the guilt burns so bad.
I don’t want to feel this way about my family. I don’t want to resent them. Especially not for choices that I made.
“They’re just acting how they always have,” I say, my voice low. “I can’t fault them for that.”
Uncle Artie shakes his head once. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is,” I insist with a dry chuckle. “I chose to be the easy one. It’s not like my mom made me do anything I didn’t want to do.”
“You were a kid, Anderson. You didn’tchooseanything.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“You figured out real quick that if you didn’t need anything, things stayed calmer. You figured out that helping her with your brothers made her happy, so you kept doing more and more, until it became an expectation of you.” His voice softens, just barely. “That wasn’t you making some grand decision to be the new head of the household after your dad died.”
My chest tightens in a way that feels different now. Not sharp. Not defensive.
Just exposed.
“I don’t want to blame her,” I admit.
“Then don’t,” he says simply. “This isn’t about blame.”
He leans back again, studying me.
“You can love your mom and still admit she didn’t show up the way you needed. Both things can be true.”
That makes something crack.
Because in my head, it’s always been one or the other.
If she did her best, I don’t get to feel hurt.
If I feel hurt, I’m ungrateful.
“And here’s the part you don’t want to hear,” he adds, voice steady. “If you keep pretending it doesn’t matter, you’re going to start resenting her anyway.”
I know he’s right.
Because I already feel it. The edge. The bitterness I don’twant. The dread that comes with anything that has to do with my family.
“You’re not wrong for wanting your life to matter,” he says. “It’s not selfish.”
My throat burns as his expression shifts—just slightly. Less chief and more uncle.
“And you’re not responsible for managing everyone else’s reactions to your happiness.”
The air feels different. Lighter. Not fixed—but clearer.
For the first time, the guilt isn’t screaming.
