Chapter 5: The Lonely Birthday

Ten months later, my brother finally welcomed me into the world—a chubby, red-faced baby girl with wide, sparkling eyes and a mouth full of spit bubbles.

He reached out, wanting to hold me, face shining. But Mom blocked him, hugging me close, guarding me like a treasure.

She tried to soften her voice but couldn’t hide the wariness in her eyes. “You go out. The baby and I need to sleep.” Her arms tightened around me.

From then on, everything changed. The air in the house shifted—new rules, new boundaries. My brother’s room stayed closed. Laughter at dinner faded.

Mom stopped being his mother, became only mine. I never noticed the difference as a child, but now I saw it in every photo and every awkward silence.

As far as I remember, my brother was always alone, withdrawn, hovering at the edge of family gatherings like a shadow.

On my birthdays, I was the center of attention—flowers, cakes, gifts piled high. My brother lounged on the sofa, playing video games, out of place. He’d pretend not to care, but I saw his eyes linger on the door, always ready to leave.

Dad would scold him, telling him to get lost and go back to his room. He’d fake a smile, then go. I watched him slip down the hall, silent and slouched.

He often got into fights—always bruised, always cut. I’d see the marks and wonder who hurt him, not realizing sometimes it was the world, sometimes himself.

When I was little, I didn’t get it. I’d touch the cut at the corner of his mouth. “Does it hurt?”

He’d twitch his lips, voice rough. “No.”

I didn’t believe him. I’d climb on a stool and blow on it. “Maddie will blow it for you. All better, right? That’s what Mom used to say.” My breath was warm and clumsy, but he’d smile—a tiny flicker.

He stiffened, quickly steadying me. “Maddie, don’t stand so high!” Mom rushed over and took me down.

She hugged me, glaring at him. “Maddie has muscle weakness in her left leg and falls easily. You know that, so stop letting her climb.”

His eyes dimmed as he gave a wry smile. He didn’t argue. After that, he grew even more distant, the gap between us widening like a crack in the floor.

I always thought he disliked me. After Mom and Dad died, I was scared he’d see me as a burden and send me away. To keep from getting too sad, I hid and refused to talk to him, building walls only a child would think were strong.

Turns out, he never disliked me. The truth hit me like a cold wind. I hugged my knees to my chest, wishing I could go back and tell him everything.