Chapter 1 | The Burden of the Eldest
I am the eldest of three, but most days I feel more like a single mother than a sibling. This morning, like so many others, begins in a whirlwind of noise and urgency. The air is thick with the scent of unwashed laundry and the lingering chill of an apartment that’s always too cold. The morning rush is a symphony of demands, complaints, and the unspoken weight of responsibility pressing against my shoulders before my feet even hit the floor.
“Jelly! I can’t find my socks!”
“Jo. Didn’t you say you’d make my lunch last night?”
“Have you ironed my shirt?”
The chorus rises before I’ve even stepped out of bed, and I’m already juggling responses in my head. Chris, my ten-year-old brother, is waving a mismatched pair of socks in the air like a flag of defeat. Eight-year-old Leah tugs at my shirt, her eyes wide with worry over her wrinkled school uniform. I love them—I really do—but sometimes, I’m convinced the universe handed me the wrong title. Eldest? Try “perpetual caretaker.”
Brynn’svoice slices through the morning haze from behind her closed door. “JoElle! Tell those kids to shut up, or I’ll come out there and MAKE them. And make me a sandwich for later. I’m starving.”
She’s the adult on paper, our mother in name, but that’s where her responsibilities end. I heard her stumble in at 5 a.m., banging into walls and slurring curses. She hadn’t even bothered to close her door before passing out on her bed, fully clothed, enveloped by the scent of cheap vodka and stale perfume.
I glance at the fridge. It’s empty except for a half-used bottle of ketchup and an ancient box of baking soda. Groceries? A distant memory. My summer job savings have run dry, and Brynn hasn’t contributed a cent to the household in months. I’ve been rationing what little we have left—instant mashed potatoes, dry oats, and canned beans—but even that’s nearly gone.
Chris and Leah sit at the kitchen table, their stomachs growling in unison. Leah rubs her belly with a small frown, while Chris absently drums his fingers against the tabletop, trying to distract himself from the gnawing hunger. “Jelly, do we have anything besides oatmeal?” Chris asks hesitantly, his voice laced with the hope of a different answer this time. I swallow the lump in my throat and force a reassuring smile. “I’ll make something work,” I say, though my mind is already racing through the meager pantry options. The air feels heavy, like a tangible reminder of how little we have left, but I can’t let them see my worry.
As I stir the thin, watery oatmeal, I imagine what a normal morning might look like—one whereBrynnis a real mother, one where breakfast includes eggs and toast instead of this tasteless sludge. But imagining won’t put food on the table. I push the thoughts aside and place the bowls in front of Chris and Leah, forcing a smile as they silently begin eating.
There was a time when mornings were filled with laughter. When I didn’t have to carry the weight of an entire household. Daddy was alive then, and everything felt safe. I remember sitting on a stool beside him in the kitchen, watching him make pancakes.
“What’s the secret ingredient, Daddy?” I asked, giggling as he whisked the batter with dramatic flair.
He tapped the spoon against my nose, leaving a dollop of batter. “Love, Jellybean. Lots and lots of love.”
I wish I could freeze that moment: the smell of vanilla, the warmth of his arms, the sound of Chris and Leah’s baby laughter. Back then, Brynn was more of a shadow than a storm. She was hardly ever around, but we didn’t mind because Daddy made up for everything.
Then he was gone. Shot during a bank robbery, leaving behind nothing but memories and a life insurance policy that Brynn drained in record time.
