For three years, my brother and I lived like strangers who shared a past but refused to acknowledge it. Our fight wasn’t dramatic—no shouting match anyone else remembers clearly—but it was sharp enough to cut communication cleanly in two. Pride filled the silence. I told myself I was better off, that family didn’t get a free pass to hurt you and walk away. Seasons passed, birthdays went unmarked, and holidays became quieter without me admitting why. I built a version of my life where his absence felt normal, even justified. Or at least, that’s what I kept repeating until I believed it.
Then one winter evening, everything stalled—literally. My car sputtered and died in the cold, right outside his apartment building of all places. Snow clung to the curb, the streetlights flickered, and I sat gripping the steering wheel, staring at the building I hadn’t visited in years. It felt like a joke the universe was playing, a test I hadn’t studied for. I reached for my phone, already searching for a tow service, rehearsing how I’d explain the delay to myself later. But my thumb hovered over one name I hadn’t deleted. Against my better judgment, I tapped it.
