That was the thing about grief, it always dragged old injuries behind it like heavy chains. My brother Tyler had always been the center of gravity in our house, the golden boy whose moods dictated the shape of every family dinner. My mother called him her spark, and my father looked at him with a pride that always made me feel like a guest.
I remembered bringing home an honor roll certificate in ninth grade and placing it on the table near my mother’s elbow. She slid it aside to make room for a gravy boat without even reading it so she could talk about Tyler’s football practice. My father didn’t even look at me, asking Tyler about the college scouts instead of acknowledging my hard work.
At fifteen, I got pneumonia so bad I ended up hospitalized, and my mother called from the car on her way to Tyler’s band showcase. She told me the nurses were taking good care of me and that Tyler couldn’t miss his big audition for my convenience. I stared at the hospital ceiling after we hung up and realized my family would prioritize a garage band over my health.