I was just drawing. Just crayons and stars.

In the hall where the light from the kitchen leaks far.

I wasn’t spying. I didn’t mean to—

But Mom’s voice cracked, and I heard it slip through.

“It’s not his fault,” she whispered, low,

“He needs help, not hate—he’s got nowhere to go.”

And Dad—his voice was rough like the floor,

Said, “What about her? She’s six, she needs more.”

I hugged my knees and pressed my face

To the carpet that smelled like dust and space.

They weren’t yelling. That made it worse.

Like sadness was heavier when it was terse.

“He stole from us. Again.” Dad’s voice, sharp.

“And you still want to open your arms?”

“He’s our son.” Mom, soft like rain.

“I can’t give up. I can’t just—blame.”

My brother’s name is loud in my head.

It echoes in places I didn’t know I had.

He’s big. He’s strong. He’s never here.

But he makes Mom’s eyes fill up with fear.

He makes Dad sigh like he’s giving up.

He makes my whole house feel like it’s stuck.

I don’t know what “rehab” is, or “bail,”

Just that when they say those words, Mom goes pale.

And I—

I pick up my crayon and try to draw wings.

Try to pretend I don’t hear these things.

But wings can’t fly in a house that breaks.

And I heard the word like a thunderquake.

“We need time apart. This isn’t right.”

Dad’s voice cracked like the porch in frostbite.

I clutched my paper. My heart broke loud.

I didn’t cry. I’m not allowed.

Because it’s his fault. My brother.

It’s always him. Not Dad. Not Mother.

If he didn’t lie, if he didn’t steal—

Maybe dinner would feel like a meal.

If he didn’t come back, bruised and thin,

Maybe Mom could tuck me in.

If he didn’t scream, didn’t break our stuff,

Maybe love would be enough.

But then—

What if I had been better? Been quiet? Been small?

What if I’d cleaned up all the sprawl?

What if I’d smiled more, needed less?

Would they still be splitting up this mess?

I curl into a corner like a folded note.

I hate my brother. I love him. I choke.

I want him gone. I want him near.

I want my family back this year.

I want the door to close and lock,

To keep the world from breaking apart.

But the door’s still open. The voices fade.

And I sit with the mess my brother made.

No—

We made.

No—

I made.

I tear my wings in two and wait.