There is gold and there is silver.
There is iron and there is steel.
All the time, she looks at you, her brown eyes going over you like an acid wash and you feel stripped as the plain zinc of a penny that's supposed to be copper. Your whole life is a lie, she says with your eyes. You were never meant to be here. You were never meant to live with us.
She fries you eggs, with the yolk broken and the edges crispy, just the way you hate them. She gives you the pulpy orange juice and you sit there and eat it, your feet numb because it seems when she went furniture shopping, she bought a table too tall and the chairs are too low and all the phone books have mysteriously disappeared.
"Mum, is there tea?"
"No. Eat your breakfast."
You know that she blames you. She's told you so herself. Michael was the younger brother, was the better one, was the baby of the family and it's your fault, Owen, for leaving him alone for just a second. Why'd you turn your eyes away? Why? Why? Why?
He was gold; you are silver.
He was strong; you are soft.
He was a man; you are a boy.
He was our hope; you are our hell.
She packs his bags for him when he's ten. "Going to live with your auntie, Owen." He doesn't say anything, but his fingers itch to curl up, wish to slap her. "I love you, but that doesn't mean I have to like you."
Decades later, he gets the notice for her funeral in his mail. His aunt wants him to go.
"I love you, but that doesn't mean I have to like you." He crumples up the invitation and tosses it in the bin.