The Middle Son

There were five of them at the dinner table. Unless of course there were guests to show off to. Noise was a constant. People almost battling for their story to matter most. The father liked to talk about politics, usually in oversimplified terms that certainly aged him over time. The mother always thought she was being clever and subtle, but her voice usually resonated a message of a smiling cynic.

His older brother had recently started wearing loafers indoors and saying things like "wealth is a mindset." He sounded like a podcaster with just the right amount of yes people around him. His younger sister still followed the trail of Pinterest boards and TikTok affirmations like breadcrumbs to a house made of glass and brand labels.

And then there was Jamie, the middle son. The one who didn’t quite match the wallpaper. He was dragged into this and through his teens and twenties lived it well too. “I’d love to build a Grand Design house.” He’d say. Five whys later and he realised it was to make people he didn’t know think he was something he never truly believed he was.

Now, however, he was different. He listened more than he spoke. He knew the price of a second-hand bike and how much clay cost at the local craft shop. He knew when the sun lit up the neighbour’s maple tree in October and which alley cats had started warming themselves on their fence.

Jamie didn't hate his family. But his journey to forgiving them for trying to build him into their own little mini-me was tough. He was never encouraged to be a better version of himself. He was told how to be a better person – full stop. This hurt over time and still occasionally pulled on a tightly wound string inside him that reverberated painfully.

“Did you see Forbes' new list?” his father would ask over grilled salmon and steamed asparagus. “Some kid built a SaaS empire and hit £10 million in two years.”

Jamie would nod, chew his food, and remain quiet.

There had been a time when he tried to join in. Tried to laugh at the same jokes, nod at the same dreams. But now, after years of unlearning and building better habits, he was able to sit and hold his peace.

“Jamie, you don’t say much,” his mother said one night, a wine glass dancing between her fingers.

“I’m listening,” he said, kindly.

It wasn’t a lie. He had learned not to argue anymore. He didn’t try to explain why he didn’t want a personal brand or a podcast or a crypto portfolio. He’d been reading a book that dove into the detail about Adlerian psychology. He was learning that most of life’s struggles come from getting tangled in tasks that aren’t yours to manage.

Their dreams were theirs. So were their disappointments. His task was to be true to his own life.

It hadn’t been easy. At first, the quiet felt like abandonment. Guilt scratched at him. He would wonder if he was selfish for not getting involved? Rude for not helping them become who they wanted to be?

But then he realised: they didn’t need help. They needed an audience. And he didn’t have to be one if it meant disappearing himself in the applause.

So, he created space. Not dramatic space. Just room. He’d bring a book to the living room while they argued about interest rates and interior design. He’d nod to be polite, but not to agree. He’d leave the room when it got too loud, not out of protest, just peace.

It was lonely sometimes. Like standing still in a room full of dancers, music thumping in a rhythm you never learned. But he wasn’t alone. Not really.

There was the woman at the bookstore who saved new poetry collections for him. The man at the community garden who taught him how to care for tomatoes. There were friends, who also felt the irony in the seemingly alarming growth of a need for attention.

He found moments that weren’t filtered through grand ambition or filtered at all.

It didn’t make the dinners easier, not always. Sometimes his brother would roll his eyes. Sometimes his mother would sigh and give advice that wasn’t asked for, useful or even accurate.

But Jamie had worked hard to no longer be placed within someone else’s frame. He wasn’t stoic or infallible, in fact, he failed often. But he caught himself when he did and pulled himself back into who is was and way from who he wasn’t.

Belonging, he’d learned, didn’t mean merging. It meant standing whole among others and letting them stand whole, too. He’d already made the mistake of bathing in an unfair judgement of his own as he stayed silent. That wasn’t peace, that was him supressing the resentment that had built over time.

His presence wasn’t a rebellion. It was an offering. A reminder, perhaps, that not everyone had to climb the same ladder. Some of them were better off growing sideways like vines, finding sunlight where they could.

And though the room still buzzed with talk of wealth and success and the next big thing, Jamie had built something different. His was a quiet life that didn’t ask him to perform.

He showed up to dinners. He laughed when things were funny. He even met up with his brother and sister when invited to certain gatherings. He’d hug them. He’d love them. He just didn’t perform for them anymore.

That was the task he chose. And that was enough.

Room full of voices
Stillness grows inside the noise
Mine to carry, mine.