She left without another word.
A year after that wedding, I received a package at my apartment.
There was no return address.
Inside was an old photograph of Connor and me as children.
We were standing in the backyard of our childhood home, both holding the same baseball bat. I was probably twelve, and Connor was eight.
On the back, someone had written:
Brothers forever.
I sat on the couch for a long time, holding that photograph.
I didn’t hate Connor.
That surprised me.
For years, I had imagined that one day he would finally understand what he’d done. I thought I’d need an apology, some grand admission of guilt, or a moment when he looked me in the eye and acknowledged that I had been there for him when nobody else was.
But I no longer needed any of that.
I had spent too many years waiting for my family to recognize my worth.
