My Mental Circus

We attended DeYoung functions a few times a year, which was the minimum we thought we could get away with without Susan’s demands for more. Unfortunately, holidays were nonnegotiable. This Christmas arrived in our household like a carefully rehearsed play, hosted by us but directed by Susan. Jerry Jr. had perfectly wrapped the presents under the tree, dinner was immaculate, and the smiles on everyone’s faces felt as artificial as the tree in our foyer. Tate, Sally, and Jack tore through their gifts excitedly, but a sickness settled in my stomach as I watched. Gift-giving in this family wasn’t about joy, generosity, or celebrating Christ’s birthday; it was another performance, another show, and another test.

Susan’s gifts to Sam and his brothers—large bonuses disguised as presents—felt grotesque, as did her following demand that her grown sons come and thank her with a kiss on her cheek.

I looked away as they did. What kind of circus was I living in? Didn’t anyone else notice the fakeness, the power plays so garishly amplified under the bright Christmas lights?

I glanced at Sam, hoping to catch his eye, but his face remained blank as he stared at the wrapping paper littering the floor.

Across the room, Mark hovered around his father like an obedient servant.

“Dad, can I get you more mashed potatoes?” he asked, springing from his seat before his father finished his plate. Monica sat mutely in the background, her face covered in rosacea, and thinner almost every time we saw her. She just smiled while watching her husband attend to his parents, as if they were the ones to be celebrated at Christmas.

It was the same every holiday: Mark was at the forefront, eagerly searching for his parents’ approval, hungry for every scrap of attention from them.

Regarding gift-giving, Mark’s desperation was even more painful to watch. “Well, what do you think, Pops? Are those the right type of golf balls?” It was always a grand performance, his moment in the spotlight. He presented his gift last, basking in the attention as if his worth was determined by how much he could impress his parents. His gifts to everyone else were an afterthought—clearance bin items with a TJ Maxx price sticker left on, haphazardly wrapped.

Mark was a faithful sycophant, and I often wondered why anyone would want to compete with him. But Susan, always the opportunist when it came to belittling comments and comparisons, would frequently turn to Sam, unprompted, and say, “You’re just jealous of Mark.”

I glanced again at Sam, watching him stiffen. His cheeks were flushed, and he didn’t say a word to me, but I suspected he had been out in our garage, no doubt chugging a beer as quickly as he could. I could see his discomfort in his quietness. His body seemed smaller under the weight of the day’s expectations. It was subtle, but it was there—a beaten-down resistance. He resented Susan and Jerry Sr. as much as I did. Yet he still didn’t point out the strangeness of their behavior despite noticing it.

Later that evening, after Sam’s family left and the house had settled into an uneasy silence, I slipped into the laundry room, desperate for some peace of mind. I leaned against the counter, my hands absently pulling a towel from the dryer, and willed myself not to cry even as I let the soft cotton towel catch my tears. My half-empty glass of wine sat on the counter. I stared at it; how temporary my relief from the noise of his family had been. I hadn’t planned to drink through another holiday with the DeYoungs, but somehow that had become the only way I survived.

I could hear the kids playing mini-sticks in the upstairs playroom. The dryer’s heat warmed me; I needed it after being with Sam’s family, which had left me chilled.

There was a knock at the door. I took a deep breath and sipped my wine.

“Tara?”

I exhaled. It was Sam.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

The door slowly opened, and Sam stepped in, raising his eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I laughed, pointing toward the piles of folded towels.

“Just in here with my laundry. That’s normal, right?”

He smirked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“It’s always a lot with them,” I said, and he nodded in agreement. “More than just a lot, Sam.” The day’s performance had worn me out; my voice felt raw. “It’s awful. The way they act—the way they treat me. I don’t belong here in this family, and I never have. I only offer to host so I can have a bottle of wine to get me through.”

Sam stared at the tiles. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

I shook my head.

“They treat me like I don’t matter. Your mother still acts like everything we have is because of her money. I caught her coming down from upstairs, sure she was looking to see if she could ask me her favorite question, ‘Is that new?’ And then there’s Mark, groveling for your dad’s approval and ignoring his wife. And you sit there quietly, watching it all like a TV show.”

He stiffened.

“What do you want me to do, Tara?” His voice carried a hint of frustration now. “She’s my mother. I can’t just cut her out.”

I softened.

“I’m not asking you to cut her out, Sam. Please start pointing out the behaviors. Would I go through her bedroom?”

His shoulders sagged, and I saw it—the fear.

“She controls… everything. My job, our security. If I push back, she’ll make my life miserable. I don’t know how to stop it, and I don’t know why no one in my family but us sees her and her behavior and control as the problem.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“We don’t have to fight her, Sam. We have to stop letting her dictate how we do life.”

As the new year rolled in, Sam cut his workdays short to make it home by 6:30 for dinner with our family. He also stopped wearing the shirts with an iron-on “Sam” patch, the kind a gas station attendant might wear.

“Do you think you’re too good to wear a uniform, Sam?” Susan had asked him.

His reply was firm. “I can wear what I want to work, Mom.”

A few months later, he made a far bigger decision—one we had been discussing for years, and one he was finally ready to carry out.

Sam stood outside his mother’s office, his hand hovering over the door handle. He had let his family swallow him for years. For years, he had worked for their approval. He had tried to be obedient, telling himself it wasn’t worth the fight. That pleasing his mother was more manageable than arguing with her. And for what?

Behind him, Mark’s voice came from down the hallway.

“Mom needs these reviewed. Make it quick.”

The family business had been Sam’s duty, the legacy he was supposed to uphold, but standing there now, seeing Mark’s smug face, knowing he would always come second, Sam realized his family had never appreciated his contributions. And for once, he wanted to be seen.

He turned, facing his brother head-on.

“I’m done.”

Mark blinked, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Excuse me?”

Sam exhaled slowly, the decision settling over him.

“You heard me; I’m leaving. I won’t keep sacrificing myself for this family and a business that refuses to evolve.”

A sharp breath came from behind him. Susan. But Sam didn’t turn around. He walked out the door and didn’t look back.

He looked different when he came home that night. Lighter. I met him at the door.

“How do you feel?”

Sam let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Like I can finally breathe.”

I smiled, relief washing over me. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I studied Sam, searching for hesitation and regret. But there was none.

The obedience he had carried out for years—the one I had felt pulling us apart—was gone.