Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

“Then why in the world do you come to them?” my mother asked.

“Because I still foolishly believe I could actually fix you guys,” I said.

“Have you ever stopped to consider that we aren’t the ones who need fixing?” my father asked.

My eyes connected heavily with his as I set my fork down. The anger I’d come to know as a familiar companion was welling within my chest again, and I rolled my shoulders back. I knew I was posturing. Preparing for a fight over this meal. But I’d had enough of the bullshit in my life. It was time for me to take a stand and try to get the reigns back from this horse that was running wild and free underneath my legs.

And I was starting with my fucking parents.

“No, it never occurred to me that I’m the one who needs fixing because my heart isn’t icy. You and mom constantly have your nose in the clouds thinking and assuming you’re better than everyone else when you’re not. You throw around your money, and that’s why people treat you with respect, but if you lived a basic, average life and acted the way you two do, the whole of society would cast you out. You’re a dick, mom’s a bitch, the two of you have tried to forget about your druggie younger son because it doesn’t fit into your perfect lifestyle, and now you’re trying to reform your only living son to try and quell the pain in your heart.”

“You shut your mouth this instant, boy,” my father said.

“Not a chance. I know the two of you hurt. In your own empty ways since John died. Just understand that simply hurting doesn’t make you good parents. Simply allowing that ache to exist doesn’t make you family. It’s what you do with that hurt and that ache that makes you family. That makes you worthy of being his parents.”

“Shut up, Bryan,” my mother said.

“You take down his pictures, and you try to erase his memory because why? You’re ashamed? It’s too hard? Tough. When people walk into this home and see absolutely no pictures of your dead son, do you know what they think?” I asked.

My parents were staring at me

as if they wanted to kill me, but there wasn’t an ounce of me that truly cared.

Not anymore.

“They think you’re the ones who are worthless,” I said breathlessly.

“Get out. Now,” my mother said.

“I will never liquidate my business, Father, because my business allows me to do some real good, which is inspired by the life of my brother. I have a chance to really help these people in his name to alleviate some of the guilt I carry around for the circumstances surrounding his death. And I know you think I could help the homeless better by making more money and giving donations, Dad, but that’s not the help they need. The cause doesn’t need money, but the people do. Poverty isn’t a cause. It’s a state of living. Homeless people aren’t a charity, but they are a group of individuals in need of a rope to be cast to them. And does it work every time? No. Sometimes they show up to work high, and sometimes I find them right back on the street after blowing the money they earned, but I ran some figures.”

“I don’t want to hear another word of this,” my mother said.

“Sit down and shut up,” I said to her.

“You watch your mouth in this home,” my father said.

“I will do no such thing. I ran the numbers of successful homeless individuals who have been cleaned up, rehabilitated, placed into homes, and successfully pulled off the streets. Want to know our success rate?” I asked.

My parents were panting with rage as I slowly stood to my feet.

“Ninety-one percent,” I said.

I watched my father slowly rise to his feet as his cheeks colored with the anger I knew as a child. There were a handful of times I’d ever seen my father this angry, and I watched my mother reach over and take his hand. She was trying to get him to back down in her own silent way, but I was determined to stand toe to toe with them.

I was determined to get them to see before I walked out of here and never came back.

“You might want to take a good, hard look in the mirror, son, and figure out if you really want to help people or if you just want to assuage your guilt.”

“Michael, it’s not worth it,” my mother said.

“You might want to make sure you’re reaching into the poverty-stricken in this city and pulling them up because it’s a moral code or if it’s because you couldn’t help your brother,” he said.

“Michael, sit down,” my mother said.

“Before you go slinging the fact that we’re selfish and detached and not dealing with our sadness and guilt property, maybe you should make sure you’re not being any of those things yourself,” my father said.

I stood there in silence, not quite knowing what to say. For the first time in years, the rational part of me succumbed to what my father was saying. The rational part of me understood he had a point. Part of my want to reach into that community and help them was fueled by my guilt for not being more attentive to my brother. Part of the reason I started that outreach was purely for selfish reasons. Part of the reason I kept it going was that I felt I was somehow atoning for the sins I still carried around regarding my brother’s demise.