My alarm goes off at 5:30 every morning, and before I even rub the sleep out of my eyes, I open the fridge.
Not because I’m hungry—but because I need to plan.
What Robin gets for breakfast. What goes in her lunch. What I can stretch into dinner.She’s twelve. She doesn’t know I skip lunch most days.
I intend to keep it that way.
Because I’m not just her older brother anymore. I’m everything.
I’m 21, working closing shifts at the hardware store, picking up whatever extra jobs I can find on weekends. Robin stays with our neighbor, Ms. Brandy, until I get home. It’s not the life I imagined for myself—but it’s the one I chose the moment we lost our parents.
And for the most part, it’s been enough.
Robin smiles. She does well in school. She still laughs at things that shouldn’t be funny. That’s how I know I’m doing something right.But a few weeks ago, I started noticing small things.
A pause when she talked. A glance away. That quiet way kids carry something heavy without naming it.
Then one night at dinner, she mentioned—casually, like it didn’t matter—that most of the girls at school had these denim jackets.
