"No," I tell him firmly. "Don't do that to yourself."
He stares at the floor, lips pressed together and guilt tightening every line of his face.
"She was tired all the time," he says quietly. "Kept getting sick. Losing weight. And I was just—" His jaw trembles. "I was playing hockey. Focusing on getting drafted, going pro—I only cared about my own dreams. Thinking everything was finally falling into place. And the whole time, she was... she was hiding how bad she felt, and I didn't even notice."
"Zach..."
"I should've noticed," he chokes out. "I should've been paying attention. She's my little sister. And I was too wrapped up in stupid shit that doesn't matter. What kind of brother does that?"
"A human one," I whisper, cupping his cheek so he has to look at me.
But he shakes his head, eyes moist again, self-loathing bleeding through every word.
"She was getting sick again right in front of me and I missed it."
"You didn't miss it because you didn't care."
"I should've been there," he repeats, voice cracking. "All the signs were right fucking there."
"And you didn't know what they meant," I say gently. "You're not a doctor. You're a twenty-one-old kid who's trying to balance school, hockey, your future, your family — everything."
"But I still feel like I was neglectful," he murmurs, voice tight and small in a way I've never heard from him. "Like I dropped the ball. Like looking out for her is literally the one job I shouldn't screw up, and I still did. And that makes me feel like the worst, most unreliable big brother on the planet."
"Hey now," I say, my tone soft but firm as I tip his chin up with my fingers. "Don't do that. Don't be too hard on my boyfriend."
I try for a tiny smile. "I happen to love that guy."
A faint, weary laugh escapes him — more breath than sound — but it's real.
It's small, but real.
"But it's true, babe," he whispers, eyes clouding again. "I feel like I failed her."
I cup his face fully now, both hands framing him gently.
"Zach," I say softly, "you are the best big brother anyone could ask for. You've been taking care of Sam her whole life. Every scraped knee, every bad dream, every hard year — you've been there. She adores you for a reason."
He swallows hard, eyes flicking away like he wants to believe me but doesn't know how.
"There's nothing wrong with you living your life," I continue. "Nothing wrong with working for your dream, or being excited about hockey, or focusing on school. You're allowed to be twenty-one. You're allowed to want things."
His breath trembles.
"And this?" I gesture softly toward Sam's room. "This isn't something you could've prevented. Cancer doesn't care howmany hours you're home or how many signs you memorize. It comes whether you watch for it or not. That doesn't make it your fault."
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight with emotion.
"What youcando," I say, brushing my thumb under his cheekbone, "is be here with her. Like you already are. She's not fighting this alone. She has you. She has your mom. She has all of us."
A single tear slips free, and I catch it with my thumb.
"She beat it before," I whisper. "She can beat it again. And you'll be right next to her every step of the way. That's what being a big brother is."
His eyes open slowly, red-rimmed and exhausted, but there's a shift — a quiet, fragile kind of acceptance settling in his chest.
Not full.
Not fixed.
