“My Brother Is 43, Unmarried—And I Blame Our Mother”: A Family Torn by Expectations

“You know, Jessica, if your brother would just settle down, maybe I could finally sleep at night.” My mother’s words hang in the air like a threat, even as she stirs sugar into her coffee, not meeting my eyes. It’s Thanksgiving, and the house smells like turkey, cinnamon, and a kind of desperation that’s been simmering for decades.

Brandon isn’t here yet—again. He’s always late, always last, always walking in with the apologetic smile he perfected as a kid. I glance at the empty chair across from me and let out a breath, trying not to say what’s on my mind. But the words are sharp on my tongue: “Mom, do you ever wonder if maybe you had something to do with it?”

Her hand stills mid-stir. She turns, stiff. “What’s that supposed to mean, Jessica?”

I don’t answer. Not directly. We both know. She was the kind of mother who loved hard and smothered harder. Brandon was her golden boy, the one she micromanaged, fretted over, pushed into piano lessons and AP classes, who could never bring a girlfriend home without her scrutinizing every detail—too loud, too quiet, not ambitious enough, or, God forbid, not from a “good family.” I was ten years younger and, in her eyes, always a kid. Brandon bore the weight of her hopes, her anxieties, her dreams deferred.

The front door swings open, and Brandon steps into the hallway, shaking snow from his coat. He’s grayer than last year, lines deeper around his eyes. He hugs Mom, then me, and I feel him tense under my arms.

“Hey, Jess,” he says. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a mess.”

“It’s okay,” I say, but I’m lying. It’s not okay. None of this is okay. We pile into the kitchen, the three of us moving around each other like dancers who forgot the choreography years ago.

Dinner is the usual performance: Mom fusses, Brandon listens politely, I try to keep the peace. But as the pie is served, her questions start. “So, Brandon, any news? Anyone special you want to tell us about?”

He clears his throat. “No, Mom. Just work. Busy season.”

She sighs dramatically. “You know, when I was your age, I had two kids already. What are you waiting for?”

I feel the old anger rise. “Mom, maybe he’s happy how he is. Maybe not everyone needs the same things.”

She ignores me. “You’re not getting any younger, Brandon. You want to be alone when you’re old?”

He looks at me, pleading. I nod, giving him permission to say it, to finally let it out. But he doesn’t. He never does. Instead, he shrugs.

After dinner, Brandon and I sneak onto the back porch. The air bites at our skin, but out here, at least, we can breathe. He lights a cigarette—he quit years ago, except at family holidays. We stand in silence.

“You know she means well,” he says finally, voice rough.

“Does she?” I snap. “She acts like you just woke up single one day and it’s all your fault.”

He exhales smoke, watching it drift. “It’s not all her fault, Jess. I made my choices.”

I shake my head. “She never let you make any. She made them for you.”

He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got used to disappointing her, so I stopped trying.”

I remember being twelve, watching Brandon break up with a girl he loved because Mom said she was “wrong.” I remember the way he stared at the floor while Mom listed all the ways his life could go wrong if he didn’t listen. I remember thinking I’d never let her do that to me.

But for Brandon, it stuck. He dated, but never brought anyone home. He worked hard, climbed the ladder, bought a condo, but the walls were lined with books, not photos. He told me once, late at night, that when he thought about having a family, all he could picture was Mom’s voice, judging, correcting, never satisfied.

He flicks ash into the wind. “I don’t think I ever really wanted it, you know? Not after all that. The idea of family just seems…tiring.”

I hear the pain in his voice, the loneliness. I want to fix it, but I can’t. Instead, I ask, “Do you blame her?”

He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. Then: “Some days. But most days, I just wish she’d stop asking.”

Inside, Mom is clearing the table, muttering to herself about wasted potential. I watch her from the window, her back hunched, her face drawn. She’s not a villain—just a woman who never knew how to love without controlling, who wanted so badly for her son to be happy that she squeezed the joy out of him.

Later, as we say goodbye, Mom hugs Brandon tighter than usual. “You know I just want what’s best for you,” she whispers.

He nods, but I see the tears in his eyes. “I know, Mom. I know.”

Driving home, I replay the night in my head. The things unsaid, the wounds unhealed. I wonder if it’s too late for us—to be honest, to forgive, to change.

Do we ever escape the expectations our parents set for us? Or do we just learn to live inside the spaces their love made small?