I didn’t argue. My brother wasn’t wrong.
We were three years old when Clara and Josh took us in. They told us our biological mother had abandoned us and never looked back. For years, that sentence lived inside my chest like a small, cold stone.
Josh tried to soften it. He sat in the front row at every school play, clapping louder than anyone else. He filled our room with toy trucks and bought us matching bikes one Christmas.
“You boys are my world,” he used to say. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
But Clara was a different kind of weather entirely.
“You should be grateful we even took you in!” she would snap when we left a dish in the sink. “Don’t forget you’d be rotting in an orphanage if it weren’t for us!”
Noah learned to go quiet. I learned to apologize.
Then, when we were 10, Josh passed away.
After that, the house lost its color. No birthday cakes. No new toys at Christmas. The front row at our school events remained empty.
