my warm apartment and the cold, lonely picture he had painted of my mother’s house almost felt cinematic.
“So, why are you here?” I asked.
“Because,” he said, voice rough, “I don’t want to spend Christmas pretending anymore.”
I stepped aside.
“Then come in,” I told him. “But understand this, I’m not the family target or event planner anymore. If you’re here, you’re here as my brother, not as Mom’s messenger.”
He nodded and walked past me, eyes widening at everyone gathered inside.
For the first time, he saw what
