Laney Eaves
I seem to be born knowing how to make myself small enough for everyone else.
When I was five, Mom and Dad posed for a family portrait with my younger brother, Orson Townsend, standing between them. Each of them held one of his hands, and because I was worried the picture would look too crowded, I quietly slipped behind a potted plant.
The photographer counted heads three times before smiling. "What a beautiful family of three."
I clapped along from behind the leaves.
At my 12th birthday party, Orson claimed the slice of cake with the most frosting. Mom and Dad took one piece each, while I cleared the table and washed the plate without being asked. Mom praised me for being so considerate, and I treasured that compliment for years.
After I got married, I carried the same habit into my marriage.
My wife, Victoria Reed, celebrates Gavin Burton's birthday with him, goes to the movies with him, and accompanies him to the hospital. Meanwhile, I order his cake, buy their tickets, and schedule his appointments.
Victoria ruffles my hair. "Don't overthink it. I've been the only person Gavin can rely on since we were kids."
I smile and nod. She doesn't know I've been alone since childhood, too.
One day, rain starts pouring as we leave the grocery store. A paper bag gives way, sending oranges rolling across the pavement, so I crouch down to gather them.
Victoria keeps walking with the umbrella held over Gavin and never once looks back.
As they move farther away, their retreating silhouettes blur into the memory of Mom and Dad holding Orson's hands all those years ago.
A wave of disappointment washes over me.
This time, I'm ready to make room for someone else to take my place as her husband.