I hate my brother. I know, I know — that’s like, a super messed up thing to say about your own brother. Especially now. With dad being… sick. But I do. I just… can’t stand him. And I feel like a total POS for even thinking it, let alone typing it out for the whole internet to see. But I gotta say it. It’s eating me alive. Like, dad is DYING. Every single day, every day, I’m the one here. Giving him his meds, cleaning him up, helping him eat, making sure he’s not in pain. It’s a lot. A LOT. And I’m not a nurse or anything. I just… read books. I’m a librarian, ffs. My job is like, quiet and clean. This is… not that. It’s gross sometimes. It’s heartbreaking all the time. But I do it. Because he’s my dad. And someone has to. And then my brother shows up. Once a month. MAYBE. He lives like, two hours away. So it’s not even that far. He breezes in, brings some expensive cookies or something, sits on the edge of dad’s bed for twenty minutes, tells him he loves him, and then leaves. And everyone is like, "Oh, your brother is SUCH a good son! So thoughtful! Making the drive every month!" And I just… want to scream. I want to throw those stupid cookies at him. I want to tell everyone that I’m here. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. All day. All night. Like, mom called me yesterday. She was crying. “Your brother is such a comfort to your father,” she said. Comfort? COMFORT? He doesn’t wipe dad’s butt, mom! He doesn’t stay up all night listening to dad cough and struggle to breathe. He doesn’t deal with the smell. He doesn’t see the fear in dad’s eyes every time he wakes up. He just… shows up. And gets all the credit. While I’m over here, literally losing my mind, losing sleep, probably losing my job because I can’t focus on anything else, and I’m just… invisible. Like I’m just part of the furniture. The hired help. No, wait, not even that. Hired help gets paid. I get… nothing. Except this huge, heavy, awful secret that I hate my brother. It’s so messed up. I really am a bad person.