She doesn’t mean it.
I had defended my wife so often that I had stopped noticing when I was betraying my brother.
“Jamie,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“It isn’t.”
He studied my face.
Then he said something simple.
Something my mother used to say when we were children.
“Saying sorry only matters if you do something different afterward.”
I remembered Mom sitting at our kitchen table, patiently teaching Jamie how to count change.
She never pretended he could do things he couldn’t.
She never assumed he couldn’t do things he could.
She taught him.
She listened.
She let him try.
And when he needed help, she gave it without making him feel small.
Before she died, she made me promise one thing.
“Daniel, don’t let the world convince Jamie he’s less important because he needs support in some parts of life.”
