He was never there for me, growing up. Even now, sitting across the table, knowing the lives we’ve made for ourselves, I hold that resent towards him. I played no part in his pettiness; watching from a distance, I let him avoid me, acting as if I were some burden. Our parents never knew. They thought we were oh so close, entwined like twins. But he knows, and I know that he was never there like a brother should be, and when I tried to be there in turn, he turned me away like trash.

When he handed me the red-ribboned box, I shivered. He had never given me anything besides complexes. My face showed my distrust, because he followed it with, “After all this time. A little something for you, brother.” He turned away, leaving me with the box. I didn’t like his smile. It spoke silently of something macabre.

On the way out, I threw it in the neighbor’s trash bin.