Page 114 of The Silence Between

“Tellme about the first time you remember taking responsibility for your siblings.”

Dr. Winters' office was different from the group therapy rooms—smaller, with actual comfortable furniture and warm lighting that made it feel less institutional. He sat across from me, notepad balanced on his knee, expression attentive but neutral.

I thought about his question, searching through memories I usually avoided. “I was probably five or six. Mom had a bad migraine—at least, that's what they called it then. Looking back, it was probably withdrawal or a comedown. Dad was working construction during the day and bartending at night. I remember making peanut butter sandwiches for Mari. She was just a toddler.”

“And you felt responsible for her well-being even then?”

“Someone had to feed her.” I shrugged, the movement automatic, dismissive.

“That's true. But usually that someone is an adult.” His voice remained neutral, not accusatory, just stating facts. “In most families, a five-year-old isn't responsible for feeding younger siblings.”

“We weren't most families.”

“No, you weren't.” He made a note on his pad. “When you look back at that child—that five-year-old taking on adult responsibilities—what do you feel toward him?”

The question caught me off guard. “I don't know. I don't really think about it.”

“Try now,” he suggested. “If you saw a five-year-old making meals for a toddler because the parents weren't able to, what would you feel toward that child?”

Something uncomfortable shifted in my chest. “I'd feel... sad, I guess. And angry that he had to do that. That no one was taking care of him.”

“But that child was you, Leo.”

I looked away, suddenly finding it hard to meet his eyes. “That's different.”

“Why?”

“Because...” I trailed off, not sure how to explain. “Because it was just what I had to do.”

“Yes, you did have to do it. The circumstances of your childhood required you to take on adult responsibilities at an age when most children are still learning to tie their shoes.” His voice remained gentle but firm. “But that doesn't make it right or fair that you had to.”

I started to argue, then stopped, his words settling uncomfortably in my mind. The idea that I could acknowledge the wrongness of my circumstances without diminishing my response to them was... new.

“Your adaptations were necessary and even admirable,” Dr. Winters continued. “But patterns that help us survive childhood aren't always healthy when continued into adulthood. Especially when taken to extremes.”

“I had to keep taking care of them,” I said defensively. “When our parents couldn't?—“

“Of course you did. I'm not suggesting you should have abandoned your siblings.” He leaned forward slightly. “But there's a difference between being a supportive sibling and trying to be a perfect parent substitute with no help or support yourself.”

The conversation continued along this uncomfortable path, Dr. Winters gently but persistently challenging patterns of thinking I'd never questioned. By the end of the session, I felt mentally exhausted but also strangely lighter, as if naming these patterns had somehow reduced their power.

“I have one last question for today,” Dr. Winters said as our time wound down. “What lesson do you think your siblings learn when they see you taking care of everyone except yourself?”

The question hit like a physical blow. “That... they should do the same? That self-sacrifice is the only way to show love?”

“Perhaps.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Taking care of yourself isn't selfish, Leo. It's necessary for sustainable caregiving. You can't pour from an empty cup, as the saying goes.”

I considered this, turning the concept over in my mind. “I've been teaching my siblings that everyone matters except me.”

“And is that the lesson you want them to learn?”

“No.” The word came without hesitation, the first certainty I'd felt in days. “No, it's not.”

Dr. Winters smiled, a rare break in his professional neutrality. “That sounds like a breakthrough to me.”

* * *

The hospital gardenwasn't much—just a small courtyard with a few benches, some struggling plants, and a patch of sky overhead—but after nearly two weeks of institutional walls, it felt like paradise. I sat on a bench, face tilted toward the weak autumn sun, waiting.

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