The doctor said it: six months, maybe less. My mother was dying.
Then I learned my brother had sold our childhood home. I confronted him, furious.
“Yes,” he said simply.
I believed he’d betrayed us and stopped speaking to him.
I cared for Mom alone until she passed. Caleb vanished completely.
After the funeral, the lawyer called: the house was about to be seized for debt. Caleb had sold it privately, cleared everything, and given me the rest. He kept nothing.
I found him living in his car.
“You let me hate you,” I said.
“It was easier,” he replied.
And I realized I hadn’t lost my brother—I had almost lost him because I never asked what he was carrying for us.