My little brother sat on the couch, his knees drawn up, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He had not cried at the funeral. Not a single tear had slipped down his cheeks.
At first, I thought perhaps he had not understood, but I knew better. He understood too well. He simply had no more tears left to give.
“Do you want some soup?” I asked gently. He shook his head without turning around. “Maybe some water?”
Another slight shake.
I walked to the kitchen anyway and poured him a glass, setting it carefully on the coffee table in front of him. He glanced at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, lifted it to his lips. It was such a small thing, but as I watched him drink, I felt an absurd kind of relief.
If he could still feel thirst, then perhaps life was still somewhere in him. The doorbell rang in the late afternoon, sharp and unexpected. My heart skipped.
Visitors had finally stopped coming, and I had begun to hope we would be left alone for a while. When I opened the door, I found my aunt standing there. Her black coat was perfectly pressed, her lipstick immaculate.
She held a thin, solemn expression as if she were attending yet another formal gathering. “I thought I should come by and make sure you two were all right,” she said. I stepped aside, and she swept into the living room, her heels clicking with purpose.
Her eyes landed on my brother, then flicked over the state of the house, unwashed dishes, blankets on the floor, and unopened mail. I could almost see the calculations happening behind her carefully knitted brows. “This must be very hard for you,” she said, placing a hand lightly against her chest.
“Especially at your age.”
You’ve always been capable. But there are some things that a person so young shouldn’t have to handle alone.”
Her gaze returned to my brother, who had not moved from the couch. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” she continued.
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