My Mother Left Me Her House, but Only If I Let My Brother Move in – on Christmas Morning, Everything Finally Made Sense

“What is this?” I asked, holding it up.

He snatched it so fast it scared me.

“They’re not mine,” he snapped. “Drop it.”

I didn’t drop it.

Pills. Then alcohol.

Then disappearing days.

He’d call at 2 a.m.

Slurred apologies. No details.

“I’m gonna fix it,” he’d say. “I swear.

Just don’t tell Mom.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

But after the tenth “last time,” something in me broke.

I stopped answering late-night calls.

I stopped giving him money.

I stopped defending him to Mom.

By the time Mom got sick, Quentin and I were hanging on by one thin, frayed thread.

Her diagnosis hit like a truck.

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