you didn’t, I just—I made you smaller so it wouldn’t feel like I was wrong.”
Not pretty. Not heroic. Real. And the real version of my brother—the one stripped of performance and charm—was someone I’d never met at a family dinner.
“You made me a punchline,” I said.
His eyes filled. “I know. I hate myself for it.”
“Don’t. Self-hatred is just another way continue reading …
