Page 6 of Structure of Love

Right now, I was designing a house for an elderly couple who wanted something perfectly flat and level. The husband had multiple sclerosis and needed something disability friendly. I needed to do some research to make sure I was code compliantand providing him with everything he needed, which meant I had homework waiting.

No, trolling through building codes was not fun, but I liked the challenge of it. I had workaholic tendencies. It was why I’d double majored in college to begin with. I owned my crazy, thank you.

I’d driven about halfway to the office when I got a call. I glanced at the screen on my truck’s dash and groaned.

My mother.

I envied people who were close with their parents, who looked forward to chatting. With mine, I wished I could be classified as a missing person. If paying my mother to go away would work, I’d hand her a credit card with no limit. Every time I interacted with her, I could feel myself entering this weird mindset where I was part counselor, part pseudohusband, with responsibilities I’d never wanted nor signed up for. It felt incredibly awkward, even in my own head. It was a persona made for me and not something I truly fit. Like trying to put on a suit coat five sizes too large, paired with clown shoes and pants that were too short. Nothing worked. And yet, not only was I expected to stand in those shoes, but my mother acted like I’d betrayed her if I even questioned why I was playing the part.

I did not, needless to say, ever wish to speak with my mother.

Sighing, I hitAccept. “You’ve got ten minutes. I’m almost at work.”

“Oh, Gage”—I knew from the tone of her voice what this call was about before she could even finish her sentence; she sounded breathy, agitated, clearly anxious, and just a wee bit drunk, so she’d already hit the wine today—“your brother left here an hour ago saying he was going to meet up with friends. His friend picked him up. You know, Billy.”

Shit. Billy was not a good influence on my younger brother, Cooper. Truly, none of Cooper’s friends were a good influence.They ranged in age between eighteen and twenty-three, and all they wanted to do was party. I didn’t think any of them had a solid job, just gigs they worked here and there to afford the booze and drugs. Billy was arguably the worst of the lot, as he seemed to be the ringleader.

Still… “Mom. You’ve got to stop doing this. You’re going to give yourself a panic attack worrying about him. He’s a grown adult, he’s responsible for his own decisions.”

It was like I hadn’t said a word. “Can you go find him, bring him home?”

I’d recently realized I was just as bad at enabling Cooper as our mother. It had been a slow epiphany, years in the making, but I think the final straw was when my mother demanded I give my brand-new truck to Cooper because my little brother had once again totaled a car and had no ability to replace it. Demanded, mind you, after he’d already destroyed a previous vehicle of mine. I’d realized I could give everything of myself and it would never be enough. Cooper would never change, and my mother’s need to fix him would only grow to a more obsessive level. I either had to commit to that future, the one where I’d become nothing but Cooper’s Band-Aid, or I had to stop.

Therefore, last week I had promised myself I would stop. I’d told no one. Undoing years of conditioning—of programming—was hard, and I’d wanted my vow solidly in my head before the next confrontation hit. I was part of the problem if I helped Cooper beyond what I already had. The realization was a hard pill to swallow, but recognizing the problem was the first step to solving it, right? Not that I knew what the solution to the Problem of Cooper looked like.

So despite how hard it felt, because the guilt was already trying to eat at me, I said it. “No.”

Her breath hitched, startled. “Why not?”

“Because I’m enabling his bad behavior. So are you. Mom, you’ve got to stop treating him like a twelve-year-old who doesn’t know any better. He knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t care if it’s the wrong path. He doesn’t care if he’s going to die from an overdose or damage his liver from the drinking. He doesn’t want to be a responsible adult. You chasing after him and bringing him home doesn’t change that.”

She hung up on me.

I released a long, shaky breath. Well, at least she hadn’t cussed me out. Normally she got mad and yelled when I said stuff like that. Cooper didn’t want a job, he didn’t want to be responsible, he didn’t want to have a steady career and homelife. He’d proven that over and over again since he turned eighteen and went complete wild child. Now, at twenty-one, you could actually see how living hard was already catching up with him.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t help someone who wouldn’t help themselves.

I imagined my mother crying hysterically and pacing now, unsure of what to do. Cooper never listened to her, so she knew going after him wouldn’t work. She’d just be ignored and embarrassed. Unfortunately for her, there was no one else to call. She’d burned everyone else on this problem. She’d likely spend the whole day in a tizzy, crying, until Cooper managed to drag his sorry ass back to the house.

But I couldn’t help her either. When she finally let go of Cooper and let him own his choices, she’d be happier and healthier for it. As a parent, that had to be an impossible decision, but it was what she needed to do. Maybe if Cooper lost us both and had no one to fall back on, he’d finally get the vision. It was the only hope I had in regard to my little brother.

I couldn’t keep doing this. Helping Cooper was akin to pouring money into a black hole. I’d shelled out thousands over the years to replace things he’d broken, or school fees when he’dnever attended a single class. I’d done it all without complaint, but aiding him had seriously impacted my finances. Frankly, if I didn’t stop helping him now, I’d never be able to retire. At a certain point, I had to stop and safeguard myself.

That didn’t even touch on what this situation did to me emotionally, mentally. The guilt trips, silent treatments, and gaslighting had torn me down more than once. Mom and Cooper combined had impacted my dating and social life so badly there had been a three-month period when I hadn’t even seen my friends except for at work. It had been another sign I needed to step back, to stop enabling, otherwise I’d lose myself in the wake of Cooper’s destruction.

The decision had been hard. For my mother’s sake, I wished I could do more. I didn’t want her worrying and stressed out, but at some point, you just had to stop. I’d reached that point.

Sighing, I pulled into my usual parking spot at the back of the office. Cooper would be Cooper. I mentally shook off the morose feeling as I exited the truck. Work, work, focus on work. Buildings were fixable, at least. Right now, I had codes to look up, a house to design, and air conditioning to enjoy. Anything to stay out of this heat.

I wondered if the weather explained why the framing was so shoddy on the Schoolcraft project? Had the crew been in a hurry to get it done and escape the sun? Well, that was likely the excuse they’d use, anyway.

I had barely entered through the back door when Shanice poked her head out of her office and waved me in. “Gage, I need context for those pictures you emailed me. They look seriously bad.”

Her request was entirely fair. She hadn’t been on the call. “They’re certainly not good. Let me refill my water glass and I’ll walk you through them.”

3

Logan