The House That Seemed Perfect

After church, the house softened. Ties came loose, sleeves rolled up, and the arguments over TV shows resumed at regular intervals. Sunday dinner started just past two: leftover chicken from last week’s potluck, macaroni and cheese, a tray of Tanya’s famous collard greens reheated from frozen. The older kids picked at their plates, distracted by texts and the promise of the mall, but Malik ate two helpings and still eyed the cornbread, watching for a pause in the conversation where he might ask for more.

When the meal ended, the living room returned to its true function: a sorting ground for minor battles and temporary alliances. Keisha took the remote and declared a 90-minute lock on the TV for her reality show. Terrence paced the hall, trying to finish an assignment he’d forgotten, muttering equations under his breath.

Malik drifted to the corner, where the GameBoy sat charging on the window ledge. It was an old model, half the screen dark from a drop the previous year, but it worked if you angled it just so. He’d been waiting all morning to play—Terrence had a standing rule that no one touched it before him, but church days were supposed to be exceptions. Malik reached for it, fingers closing around the plastic, just as Terrence rounded the corner.

“What you doing?” Terrence’s voice was pitched for the whole room. He lunged, grabbing Malik’s wrist, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to prove a point. “Put it down.”

“It’s my turn,” Malik said, trying to keep his voice level. “It’s Sunday. You said church days were exceptions.”

Terrence squeezed. “I said that one time. That doesn’t count forever.”

Malik tried to pull away, but Terrence’s grip only tightened. The GameBoy slipped, skidded across the floor, batteries ejecting on impact. Malik dove for it; Terrence caught him mid-air, pinned his chest to the carpet, and ground his knuckles into Malik’s scalp.

“Stop!” Malik yelped, arms flailing. “Get off!”

“You heard him, Terrence.” James’s voice arrived before his body did, but the effect was immediate. Terrence froze, let go, then scrambled to his feet, dusting imaginary lint from his shirt.

James stepped into the room, filling the doorway. He looked at Terrence first, face cold and deliberate. “What did I tell you about putting hands on your brother?” The tone was not angry, just deeply tired, like a judge passing a sentence he’d delivered a hundred times before.

Terrence stared at his shoes. “He started it.”

James took a step closer. “You’re sixteen. Almost a man. Men don’t use their strength on people smaller than them. That’s a lesson you’re gonna learn one way or another.” There was a gravity to it—not a threat, but a kind of grim investment.

Terrence mumbled something, barely audible, but James only nodded once, slow and final, then turned to Malik.

He looked at Malik for a long beat, longer than made sense. In that pause, Malik saw his father’s face change—first angry, then blank, then almost confused, as if he’d found a stranger in the room and was trying to place him. The space stretched out, quiet as a held breath.

Then James said, softer than before: “Go on to your room, son.”

Son. The word never fit right. Malik heard it the way you hear a song played in the wrong key—almost correct, close enough to follow, but off in a way you couldn’t quite name. He wanted to believe James meant it, that James would teach him the way he taught Terrence, blood to blood. But he’d seen the difference in his father’s eyes—protection for Malik, guidance for Terrence. He nodded, retrieved the GameBoy from under the couch, and made for the stairs. As he passed the kitchen doorway, he caught sight of Tanya standing with her arms crossed, dish towel twisted between her fingers, eyes fixed not on him but on James—watching her husband with that same careful, measuring look she gave to recipes that might burn if left unattended.

He got to his room, closed the door behind him, and sat cross-legged on his bed. The batteries were missing, so he pressed the power button anyway, just to see the dead screen. He lay back, holding the GameBoy above his face, staring at the broken seam where the screen met the case. He thought about the way James looked through him, not at him, and how even when he was the one being protected, he felt like the odd object in the room.

He waited a little longer, listening to the house settle, then closed his eyes, holding the GameBoy to his chest. It wasn’t his turn, but he would keep it anyway.

⁂

That night, after the house had dialed down to the low static of running dishwasher and muted television, Malik padded to the bathroom with toothbrush in hand and the GameBoy stuffed in the pocket of his pajamas. The hall lights were off; he navigated by memory, hands grazing the walls, feet careful to avoid the creak in the third floorboard.

He flicked on the bathroom light and squinted into the glare. The cracked mirror greeted him, same as always, the fracture running corner to corner like a cartoon lightning bolt. Nobody ever talked about fixing it. Maybe no one even saw it anymore.

He lifted his chin, toothbrush paused mid-air, and regarded his reflection. The crack cut his face in two, splitting him at the nose. In the top half: his mother’s round cheeks, the shadow of her expression in the set of his eyes. In the bottom: a jaw that didn’t belong to anyone in the family portraits, lips pressed so tight they disappeared. His skin looked uneven in the light, too dark in some places, too pale in others. The line down the mirror made him two people at once—just like the way James had looked at him downstairs, as if trying to recognize someone who should be familiar.

He dipped his head, loaded the brush with toothpaste, and scrubbed hard, watching the foam collect in the sink. When he finished, he rinsed the brush, spat twice, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

He glanced up one last time, then looked away quickly. Something about his own eyes made his chest feel hollow. He switched off the light, closing the door soft behind him, and promised himself he wouldn’t look so long next time.

He froze in the dark hallway as his mother’s voice sliced through the gap under the master bedroom door. Not crying this time—worse. She was whispering with such ferocity that each syllable felt like a needle piercing the air. He flattened himself against the wall, lungs burning as he held his breath, heart hammering so violently he feared they might hear it through the drywall. Then his own name knifed through whatever she was saying, just once, but with such venom it made his stomach lurch. The whispers died suddenly, replaced by silence so complete it roared in his ears, punctuated only by the television’s distant drone. The conversation was over, but the wound of it remained, bleeding into the darkness. Whatever terrible truth they’d buried behind that door wasn’t meant for him. Not yet.