(tw; family dysfunction)
That's the word you use, isn't it?
"Did you remember to call the vet?"
"Oh, no, my bad, I was a little preoccupied."
"What about the trash company? We haven't gotten our bins yet."
"Shoot, I completely forgot."
"We still have to get our internet set up, remember?"
"I did say I was going to do that, didn't I?"
Yes, you did.
You did say that.
And every day,
I have to remind you again,
like a parent pestering their child
about cleaning that pigsty of a room,
and every day,
that growing pile of promises remains untouched,
unfulfilled, and increasingly funny-smelling.
Being preoccupied has practically become your job,
so it's no wonder that absentmindedness is sometimes known
as preoccupation.
All jokes aside, there is a fine line between forgetfulness
and prioritization of him over us,
a line you've made a point of crossing
at every opportunity that has arisen.
But maybe I'm unfairly assigning blame.
Maybe we're both at fault.
Because, you see, I lied.
Those words never left your lips, but even fabricated excuses,
however exasperating they would have been to truly hear,
are still better than the reality.
With each reminder, I was met with an ever-so-slight
narrowing of the eyes that so closely resemble my own,
a sigh of "yes, I know,"
and even more empty promises.
And yet, I continue to persist.
Why? Because it's important to me. To us.
I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it,
waiting for something that will never come.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
Now that I think about it, it does seem trivial,
insignificant in the grand scheme of things,
but it's those little trivialities that
you were supposed to be responsible for.
You preach to me about the importance of family,
and admonish me when I take that family for granted,
and yet you disregard your own,
not even bothering to ask us how we feel
about this unfamiliar, near-constant presence in our home.
He can never fill in what is missing,
can never make up for what has been absent for years,
but I may have grown to like him, had he not be forced upon me.
I have been given no choice but to interact, to tolerate.
I have no say whatsoever because my voice has been stifled
by your unwillingness to listen,
your apathy regarding what I may have to say.
Maybe you're afraid.
Afraid of what we think of him.
Afraid of disappointment.
But the more distance you put between yourself and us,
the more time of ours you take and fill with him,
the clearer your message becomes.
We don't matter.
We aren't important enough.
Our thoughts, our feelings,
they are absolutely and unequivocally irrelevant.
You don't care.
How did this happen?
Was it him? Did he do this? Or was it something else?
Did we do something? Did I do something?
There has to be a reason, a rational explanation.
Of course there is, why wouldn't there be?
There's a valid reason, isn't there?
I can fix this.
Tell me how to fix this.
There has to be a way to fix it.
What did I do wrong?
Sorry, did you say something? I was preoccupied.
