The Boy You Starved for Him

When my parents finalized their divorce, they made a neat, sensible pact: each would deposit seven hundred and fifty dollars into my brother’s account and mine on the first of every month. Fifteen hundred dollars each. Enough to cover rent, groceries, and textbooks without drowning us in student debt. My brother received three thousand dollars like clockwork every month. I received zero. Not a single cent. The first time I worked up the courage to ask Mom about it, she bit my head off before I could finish the sentence. "Between your father and me, you’re getting fifteen hundred a month! Where on earth is all that money going, Simon? Are you running some kind of secret slush fund?" When I tried Dad, his tone was even colder, dripping with that familiar, impatient disgust. "Stop playing the broke martyr. Learn to budget your damn life. You’re my son just like Chase is—how come he never whines about money?" Neither of them believed me. To them, I was either an irresponsible spendthrift who blew through cash like water, or a manipulative liar crying poor for extra pocket change. To stay alive, I took morning classes and spent my nights working three different jobs. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, my checking account sat at four dollars and twelve cents. Desperate, I called Mom, my voice cracking through the receiver. "Mom, could you please just wire me seventy-five dollars? That’s all the bus ticket costs. I just really want to come home for Thanksgiving." All I got in return was her sharp, mirthless laugh. "Blew through every penny, and now you’re trying to scam me for bus fare? If you don’t want to come home, Simon, do us all a favor and stay away forever." I clutched the phone so hard my knuckles went white. Before I could speak, a warm, thick trickle broke from my nose, spattering dark crimson droplets across the cracked screen. "Mom, I swear to God... I never saw a single dollar." … In the family group chat, the banter was warm and effortless. Mom posted: "Thanksgiving dinner at six sharp. Nobody misses it this year." Chase immediately replied with a gif of a golden retriever saluting. "Yes, Captain!" I stared at the glass screen, my thumb hovering. Ever since the divorce, Thanksgiving was the only time all four of us were ever in the same room. I didn't want to miss it. I wanted to sit at a warm table and pretend, for two hours, that I still had a family. But I couldn't even afford the grease on a diner napkin. A second later, Mom tagged me. "Some people really know how to play the victim. Fifteen hundred a month isn't enough to live on, and five minutes ago he calls begging for seventy-five bucks for a bus ticket. It’s honestly laughable." Dad jumped in right behind her. "No sense of responsibility. Blows his allowance and starts crying poor. Chase doesn’t cause a tenth of the drama you do." Then Chase weighed in, smooth and condescending: "Simon, you’re a freshman now. You need to grow up and stop dumping your petty problems on Mom and Dad." The room seemed to drop ten degrees. My fingertips went numb as I typed out eight words: "I swear I never received any allowance." Mom’s reply was instant. "Right, because three thousand dollars just sprouts legs and walks away. Cut the melodramatics, Simon." The chat went dead. My chest hitched. Another hot rush hit my throat, and blood spilled over my lower lip, dripping onto the screen. I clamped a rough paper napkin against my face and ducked behind a pillar in the campus dining hall. "Simon?" A hesitant voice made me flinch. It was Sadie from my biology lecture, rolling a glossy hard-shell suitcase behind her. "What are you still doing here? Aren’t you going to miss your flight?" I blinked over the wad of bloody tissue. "What flight?" "Chase told everyone in the lounge that your dad bought you guys plane tickets home for the break." The air left my lungs in one cold rush. Dad bought Chase a plane ticket. Where was mine? My fingers shook so badly it took three tries to dial Dad’s number. "Dad," I croaked. "I heard you bought Chase a flight home." "What about it?" "Could you... is there any way you could get me one, too?" Dad’s voice dropped into that dark, low register that used to precede a slammed door. "What is wrong with you, Simon? I do something nice for your brother, and you instantly turn it into a competition?" "No, Dad, that’s not—" "Save it," he sneered. "Even acting broke has its limits. Your brother saved up and bought me a leather weekend bag for the holidays. What do you ever do besides hold out your hand?" The line went dead. A sharp, searing pain bloomed behind my eyes. Tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them back savagely. Chase hadn’t left for the airport yet. He lived in the north campus suites. Surely my own brother would lend me seventy-five dollars for a bus ticket. When I reached his door, Chase was zipping up an expensive duffle bag. He looked pristine—pressed merino wool sweater, fresh haircut, smelling of high-end cedar cologne. I stood in his doorway wearing a threadbare hoodie washed so many times the cuffs were fraying, my sneakers split at the rubber toe. "Chase," I pleaded softly, keeping my head down. "Can you lend me seventy-five bucks for the regional bus? I swear I’ll pay you back the second my shift check clears next week." Chase turned, his lip curling in instinctive disgust. "Out of money again?" He shook his head, sighing like an exhausted parent. "Mom and Dad wire your money on the first of every month. What are you even doing with it? College has its temptations, Simon, but you’re eighteen. Learn some damn self-control." His two roommates glanced up from their desks, their eyes heavy with silent, judgmental curiosity. Heat crept up my neck, scorching my cheeks. I opened my mouth to explain, but Chase was already swinging his bag over his shoulder. "Look, my Uber’s downstairs," he said, brushing past me without a second glance. "Mom and Dad had a messy divorce. It’s hard enough on them without you constantly causing trouble. Grow up." He disappeared down the stairwell. A notification chimed on my phone. In the family group, Dad had sent a voice message: "Safe travels, Chase buddy! What do you want for dinner? I’ll pick up the good ribeyes on my way home." I stood in the drafty hallway, my vision blurring. When had I ever caused them trouble? I paid my own tuition deposits through loans and grants. Every meal I ate was bought with minimum-wage sweat. Yet in their minds, I was an insatiable leech. Every month on the first, Chase would post a screenshot of his bank notification in the chat, accompanied by sweet, polished gratitude: "Thanks Mom, thanks Dad! I’ll make it last. Love you guys." If I didn't say anything, they would tag me like clockwork: "Where’s Simon? Not even a 'thank you'?" "We raised an ungrateful brat. You give him everything, and he still acts entitled." The sickening irony was that I had tried to tell them. Back in September, I thought it was an administrative glitch. Afraid they’d be upset, I sent private screenshots of my zero-dollar checking account to both of them. Mom’s response had been immediate venom: "Why are you Photoshopping fake balances to shake me down? I already sent your money! If you blew it, ask your father!" Dad had threatened to block my number: "Did your mother put you up to this? Did she tell you to humiliate me?" They had a screaming match over the phone that night. After that, I never dared mention the money again. So, on the first of every month, Chase posted his screenshot, and I followed beneath him like a well-trained dog: "Thank you, Mom and Dad." When they asked if it was enough, I typed: "It's plenty." It had to be. To survive, I bussed tables at a seafood restaurant from four to nine, worked the overnight register at a gas station until five in the morning, and ghostwrote freshman essays in the library basement during my two-hour breaks. My spine felt like cracked chalk. One night, Chase happened to walk into that high-end seafood place with a group of friends. Before I could even slip into the kitchen, he snapped a photo and dropped it straight into the family chat: "Simon, is this you? You're always begging me for cash, but you're eating dinner here?" I scrambled to type that I was working, but Mom’s call slammed through before I could hit send. "Simon! You spend every week crying poor, and now you’re dining at hundred-dollar-a-plate steakhouses? Who are you seeing? Are you whoring yourself out? Spending our hard-earned money trying to play sugar baby to some degenerate?" Tears of raw frustration burned my eyes. "Mom, no, please, I’m working here! I’m clearing tables—" Dad cut in over text: "Cut the crap! Post your account transaction history right now! Let’s see you squirm out of this!" I posted the screenshot of my account history. Chase chimed in smoothly: "Mom, Dad, don't be too hard on him. He’s young. First time having real money away from home, it’s easy to get blinded by the party scene. Just own up to it, Simon. Don't lie to Mom and Dad after blowing through their cash." When I tried to send the rest of my work timesheets, red exclamation points lined my screen. They had blocked me. Standing now in the chilly dormitory vestibule, I let out a ragged breath that rattled in my chest. I fished a faded plastic pill bottle from my pocket. There was only half a tablet left. I dry-swallowed it; the bitter residue clung to the back of my tongue like poison. Two months ago, I had collapsed during a shift. The ER doctor had looked at my lab work with grave horror: chronic severe malnutrition, advanced anemia, and multiple markers of early organ stress. "Kid," the doctor had warned, his face lined with pity. "Your body isn't a machine. You can't run on fumes and stubbornness. Take the meds, eat three meals a day, or the next time you drop, you won't wake up." I pocketed the empty bottle. I couldn't afford meals, let alone the prescription refills. With nowhere else to turn, I walked to the diner near the highway, praying they had holiday shifts available. Holiday triple-pay was my only salvation. For five hours, I carried heavy ceramic platters, watching families crowded around booths. Dads cutting pancakes for little girls, mothers passing coffee cups, everyone smiling, wrapped in warmth. Every time I turned toward the dish pit, I had to wipe my eyes with the back of my forearm. Frank, the owner, caught me slipping out the back door. "Simon? Hey, what's going on with you, kid?" He frowned, wiping his hands on his apron. "It’s Thanksgiving Eve. Why aren't you on your way home?" I bit my lower lip until I tasted rust. "Frank... I don't have enough for the bus ticket. Could you advance me seventy-five dollars from tonight? I just... I really need to go home." Frank didn't just advance the cash; he pulled an extra fifty from his own wallet, shoved it into my hand, and practically pushed me out the door. "Go. Run." I sprinted eight blocks to the train station, catching the absolute last standing-room ticket on the night commuter before the lines shut down. As the conductor scanned my barcode, the tension in my shoulders finally broke. I snapped a picture of the paper ticket and sent it to the group chat, my fingers trembling with relief: "Mom, Dad, I made it on the train. I’m coming home." No one replied for an hour. Then Chase posted a laughing emoji. "Seriously, Simon? Taking the commuter rail like a hobo? A flight is like two hundred bucks. Drop the tragic hero act and hurry up. Mom made your favorite roast." The train lurched into motion. For six hours, I stood wedged in the drafty accordion gangway between two passenger cars, clinging to a metal handrail as the train swayed violently through the dark countryside. My vision swam with dark, pulsating halos. Near midnight, my phone buzzed. A FaceTime call from Dad. I answered with shaking hands. "Where the hell are you?" Mom’s voice barked through the speaker. "The food’s been cold for an hour!" The camera shook, revealing our old dining room—bright, warm, smelling almost palpably of roasted butter and rosemary. Chase was sitting at the head of the table, polishing off a slice of pecan pie. On the buffet behind him sat two beautifully wrapped boxes. "Mom, Dad," Chase purred on camera, sliding the boxes over. "I got these for you using the savings from my allowance." Mom beamed, her cheeks flushed with pride as she tore into the wrapping. Then she turned the screen back toward me, her smile vanishing into a scowl. "Look at your brother! Same school, arrived hours ago, thoughtful enough to bring us gifts. Where are you?" The train hit a sharp bend. My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the cold steel bulkhead. A wave of nausea hit me, and my sight faded to grey. "Mom... Dad..." I whispered, my voice sounding paper-thin. "Two more hours. I’m in the gangway... only got a standing ticket. I feel really sick... could one of you please meet me at the station?" Mom’s brow furrowed in utter disgust. "Here we go. Ruining Thanksgiving before you even step through the door! If you’re broke, admit you're broke! Don't invent some fake medical emergency for pity!" Dad scowled, looking sideways at Chase. "You saw him on campus. Is he actually sick?" Chase chuckled casually, swirling his cider. "He’s probably doing another one of those fasts. Don't worry, Dad. Whenever he’s out of cash, he pretends he needs medicine. You guys gave him too much money; it rotted his brain." That was the final straw. Dad’s face turned to stone. "Enough of this circus. If you’re going to act like this, don't bother coming home at all." "Click." The screen went black, leaving only my own reflection staring back at me. Pale as bone, hollow-eyed, lips smeared with dried blood. A sudden warmth flooded my nose again. I wiped it with the sleeve of my frayed hoodie, smearing dark red across the cuff, clutching the crumpled paper ticket in my other fist. "This was the road home." "So why did it feel like I had nowhere to go?" A memory floated up unbidden: Thanksgiving when I was eight, before the shouting started, before the lawyers and the split assets. Mom had baked pumpkin pies from scratch. Dad had let Chase and me sit on the porch swing, watching the autumn leaves drift across the lawn. We had laughed until our stomachs ached. Then they tore each other apart. Chase learned how to play the game—how to be charming, how to flatter, how to be loved. And I had simply been left behind. The train roared out of a mountain tunnel. Outside the scratched window, a cold, perfect autumn moon hung suspended in the black sky. I looked up at it, my vision swimming behind a curtain of tears. "Is this what family is?" I whispered into the empty, screeching metal car. "I don't... I don't want this anymore." All the strength in my legs evaporated at once. My knees gave out. The steel floor rushed up to meet my face. "Kid? Hey, kid! Can you hear me?" Through the thick, buzzing static in my ears, foreign voices clamored above me. Hands turned me over. People were calling out, urgent and terrified. None of those voices belonged to my parents. A flashlight pierced my blown pupils. The conductor grabbed my unlocked phone, frantically dialing the last incoming contact. "Hello? Is this Simon’s mother?" the conductor yelled over the train's idling engines. "Your son collapsed in transit! He’s unresponsive! We’re making an unscheduled emergency stop at the next crossing to get him to a county hospital! You need to get here immediately!" Mom’s voice came through the speaker, crisp with exasperation. "What kind of stunt is he pulling now? He staged an ambulance ride just to get out of being late?" The conductor stared at the phone in sheer disbelief. Mom let out an irritated sigh. "Fine! Fine! He wants money, right? Tell him I’m Venmoing him right now! Just tell him to stop the damn performance! We give him fifteen hundred a month, and he still pulls these humiliating tantrums!" The paramedic kneeling beside me ripped the phone out of the conductor's grip, his face flushed with professional fury. "Lady, what is wrong with you?" the paramedic roared into the receiver. "Your son’s pulse is thready, his systolic is down to fifty, and his organs are shutting down from acute starvation and dehydration! If you don't get your ass to Valley Regional Hospital in thirty minutes, you’ll be picking him up from the morgue!" Dead, suffocating silence fell over the other end of the line. The train never reached my hometown. By the time my parents burst through the emergency room doors, drenched in sweat and shivering from the autumn chill, their faces were masks of defensive denial. "Where is Simon?" Dad demanded of the triage nurse. "Did he actually get admitted?" The attending physician stepped out from behind the trauma bay curtain, his chart clutched tightly in his fist, his expression thunderous. "Are you Simon's parents?" "Yes," Mom stammered. "Is he okay? It’s just... he tends to exaggerate—" "Are you out of your minds?" the doctor interrupted, his voice dropping like an anvil. "That boy has advanced stage-two organ strain brought on by prolonged, severe starvation, sudden withdrawal from vital prescription medication, and physical exhaustion. He is in septic shock right now! He is barely eighteen years old—could you not spare a single dime to buy your child food and medicine?" Mom flinched as if struck. "That's impossible! Between his father and me, we provide fifteen hundred dollars every single month! If he didn't buy medicine, it's because he blew it on—" A nurse walked over, carrying a plastic evidence bag containing my personal effects. Inside lay a crumpled one-way train ticket, three laminated employee ID badges from different fast-food and janitorial agencies, and a blister pack containing exactly half a pill. Beside the bag lay my cracked phone, its screen still unlocked, glowing with the open banking app. Checking balance: $0.00. My parents stared at the screen. Dad grabbed the phone, his trembling thumb frantically swiping backward through twelve months of transaction history. His face drained of every drop of color. There were no luxury dinners. No shopping sprees. No three-thousand-dollar wire transfers. Just ninety-nine-cent gas station bagels. Dollar-store instant noodles. And the credits: Forty-five dollars from the diner. Sixty dollars from handing out flyers in the rain. Eighty dollars for a graveyard shift at the gas station. Every single cent was the price of my skin and bone. Dad’s neck cracked as he turned slowly toward Mom, his voice turning into a hollow rasp. "This entire past year... you never sent Simon a dime?" Mom’s knees trembled. Her lips parted, paper-white. "What are you talking about? Wasn't... wasn't that you?"