Mundane yet Hurtful

It began like most days in my life—quiet, colorless, already heavy before I opened my eyes. The same routine followed, one I’ve memorized not out of comfort but necessity. I got out of bed, used the bathroom, dressed myself with no real intention behind my choice of clothes, and waited for the day to unfold into whatever shape it decided to take. I expected nothing remarkable. I was wrong.

The sun in El Centro doesn’t just shine—it scorches. By 7PM, it was still 108 degrees outside. The desert heat doesn’t ease with time; it only lingers, pressing into your skin like punishment. That afternoon, we had an appointment at a low-income apartment complex. My mother, sister, and I were there to sign some paperwork—another attempt to stabilize a life that’s been slowly unraveling since the day my father passed away.

At first, everything seemed fine. We moved through the motions, dry signatures on government forms, hushed discussions in a cramped office. But in our family, peace is fragile, and it doesn’t take much to break it. The car’s air conditioner barely functioned, which immediately soured my sister’s mood. The sweat on our skin became irritation in our words. I tried to calm her down. I always try. But something about my voice, my presence, my very existence seems to set her off. My words were met not with understanding, but with a sharper bitterness, as if my effort to help only made things worse.

Inside the car, my mother and I began discussing the reality of our situation. We were hesitant about committing to this apartment. If I got a job call—any job—it might boost our income just enough to disqualify us from the housing program, leaving us ineligible and evicted before we could even settle in. It was a delicate line to walk: too poor to live, too hopeful to qualify. The conversation was practical, but the truth behind it was grim. That future felt too unstable to speak out loud for long.

Then my sister lashed out again. She snapped that she was tired of living paycheck to paycheck, tired of the instability, the uncertainty. I told her we all were. That our father had only just died—barely a month ago. June 8th. The date still rings in my head like a dull church bell. I reminded her that expecting life to improve so soon was like asking a wound to heal before the bleeding stops. But my words didn’t soothe her. They rarely do. She told me I didn’t care about her, didn’t care about Mom, that I was selfish and cold.

I tried to defend myself. I reminded her of what I gave up. That I dropped out of Cal Poly Pomona when she was struggling with her mental health, when both of our parents needed someone present. I enrolled in an online program, buried my aspirations because I thought family came first. But none of that mattered. Not to her. She cut me down again, accusing me of being uncaring, useless, invisible. She said she hated me. She meant it.

And my mother… she said nothing to stop her. Instead, she broke down in front of us—eyes glazed, trembling voice, close to the edge of something I didn’t know how to name. She unraveled quietly while my sister’s words kept piling on. I stood there, absorbing it all. Taking the blows not because I’m strong, but because I’ve learned no one else will.

I’ve become the emotional scapegoat in a house still echoing with absence. My sister’s pain is loud and lashing. My mother’s is silent and sad. Mine… mine just sits beneath everything, like a fault line waiting to split open. And sometimes, I can’t help but think maybe it should’ve been me instead of him. Maybe if I had died, they’d be happier. Maybe he could’ve guided them in the ways I never learned how. Maybe he’d know what to do with all of this.

I try to show I care, even if it never seems to register. My nieces have been staying over, and I’ve spent what little I had on snacks and food just so my sister could feel like a good host. She told me she didn’t want them to feel unwelcome. She said it with tears in her voice, and I believed her. So I gave, like I always do, hoping it might mean something. Hoping it might be enough. But in the end, it never is. The kindness is forgotten. The sacrifices erased.

I don’t know what makes a man, but I know I’m not one. I have no job, no income, no experience that matters. I’m just someone trying to hold together a family that seems to be coming apart at the seams. I look in the mirror and see a shadow of my father, but I don’t see strength—I see someone who’s still a boy, pretending he knows what he’s doing. I try to carry the weight he left behind, but it’s crushing me. I feel like I’m disappearing under it.

And still, if I could give up everything—my life, my future, my place in whatever comes after—I would, just to bring him back. He would’ve done better than I have.

I tell myself I’ll be okay dying alone, as long as my mother gets to finish her life in peace, without fear, without struggle. That’s the only comfort I cling to now.

Today was just another mundane day. No big events. No life-changing news. Just heat, paperwork, and words that cut deeper than they should’ve. And yet, it tore into me more than I expected. Another ordinary day, quietly breaking me in ways I’m running out of language to describe.