I walked over to the window.
The street outside was empty, the world silent. Snowflakes drifted past the glass in lazy spirals, collecting on the porch steps.
It was peaceful out there, a cruel contrast to the storm brewing inside my chest.
For years, I told myself my parents’ favoritism was just subtle, maybe unintentional.
Maybe I was imagining it.
Maybe I was too sensitive.
But seeing it all in black and white, their words, their money, their intentions, it felt like reading a confession letter from someone who’d never even realized they were confessing.
I closed my laptop.
The noise of it snapping shut was louder than it should have been.
Then I walked down the hall to Lucas’s room.
He was asleep, curled up under his blanket, one arm draped around that little toy police car.
The paint was already chipped.
One of the wheels was gone, but he’d taken it to bed every night since Christmas.
