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My father kept a certain intensity about him, the kind he usually reserved for moments when he needed control restored. He watched everything with a kind of measurement, as if he were silently checking whether the family moved according to a pattern he believed should never be disrupted. My mother followed that rhythm, keeping conversations brief and neutral, hoping to prevent conflict rather than resolve anything. Even the way she set the table changed. She moved slightly faster, pressing silverware down more firmly, like she needed something to stay perfectly aligned.<\/p>\n
The pressure grew more noticeable whenever my brother entered the room. He had a way of embodying the house\u2019s unspoken hierarchy, confident it would always bend around him. I recognized the shift in his expression, how easily he filled space, how sure he was that nothing significant could happen in our family unless he was at the center of it.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t blame him entirely. He had been raised to believe that attention followed him by right. Still, the imbalance deepened every time he looked at me with vague curiosity, as if he couldn\u2019t figure out why I had become quieter.<\/p>\n