He was Dad’s golden child and a caring brother. Even as adults, he checked on me during storms. Sometimes, his care felt like a hand on my neck.
Greg filled the spaces he left behind.
Still, I called it love.
The afternoon after Dad’s funeral, I stood in my childhood living room, surrounded by wilting flowers and covered dishes.
Aunt Sandy, Dad’s sister, folded napkins while Uncle Nolan cleared plates and Cousin Sadie sorted sympathy cards. Greg handed me coffee made with two sugars and glanced at my untouched plate.
I looked away.
I called it love.
Greg touched my shoulder. « Dad would want me to take care of you. »
Something tightened beneath my ribs. He said it like Dad had left me behind for Greg to manage.
« We’re all we have now, Chlo. »
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