This is my baby brother telling me I’m not allowed to give up on him.
Me: I’m not quitting.
DJ: Good.
DJ: Because I’m not ready to live in a world without my sister bossing me around.
I laugh, the sound shaky but real.
Me: You love it.
DJ: Only for you
Another pause.
DJ: I love you, Lean Bean.
I press my phone to my chest like I press Ajaih’s notes there.
Me: I love you too.
DJ: Keep fighting until I get home.
I stare at that message for a long time.
My body may be tired.
My organs may be struggling.
My strength may fluctuate.
But love?
Love keeps showing up and wrapping itself around me.
And as I sit there on my couch, wiping tears from my cheeks, I realize something simple and steady. I will keep fighting. At least until my brother walks through that door.
EVERY LAST DOLLAR
Family therapy days are always a heavy mixture of healing and discomfort.
The office is neutral on purpose. Soft gray walls. A circular arrangement of chairs. A box of tissues placed equidistant from everyone like the therapist expects at least one of us to break.
Usually, I don’t.
Usually, I’m the steady one. The support beam. I listen and nod. I offer logic when emotions get too loud.
Today seems to be the day I refuse to be quiet.
Mama sits to my right. Her posture was elegant but relaxed. Caleb leans back in his chair like he owns the building. Calla sits with her legs crossed, eyes sharp and observant as ever.
Dr. Manning looks at me gently. “Are you planning to be quiet today, Calil?”
I almost laugh.
“Not today,” I say calmly. “Today I’ve got something to say.”
Three heads turn toward me.
