I’ve noticed a phenomenon. It's Friday night, I'm supposed to be relaxing after a week of clinicals and studying for my nursing degree, but instead I’m scrolling through cleaning supply reviews online. My brother, bless his heart, lives in a perpetual state of controlled chaos, and by "controlled" I mean if I don’t show up, it quickly becomes an ecological disaster zone. Every single weekend. I don't even remember when this started, exactly. Probably when I turned 18 and got my own car, which apparently also came with a free maid service subscription for his place. My typical Saturday involves waking up at 7 AM, driving twenty minutes to his apartment, which smells vaguely of old pizza and unidentifiable funk, and then spending the next four hours scrubbing things. I start with the kitchen, which always has dishes piled so high it looks like a Jenga tower about to collapse. Then the bathroom, which… well, let's just say a hazmat suit feels appropriate. I buy all the groceries too. Like, all of them. He sends me a list, which is usually just "stuff to eat," and then complains if I don't get the specific brand of oat milk he saw on TikTok. The whole time I'm there, he's usually on his computer, yelling at people in some online game, occasionally popping out to say, "Hey, did you remember the organic kale?" while I’m elbow-deep in a clogged drain. The worst part isn’t even the actual cleaning, though I have to admit, seeing grime lift off a surface does produce a certain satisfaction. No, it’s the commentary. The constant stream of… blame. If I forget one item on his vague list, it’s suddenly my fault he has "nothing to eat." If the floor isn't sparkling enough, he’ll sigh dramatically and say, "Guess I'll just live in a pigsty forever." As if I’m the reason it’s like that in the first place. He’ll even complain about the cost of the groceries I bought him with MY money, saying things like "Geez, everything's so expensive now, isn't it?" like I'm personally responsible for inflation. It’s almost impressive, the mental gymnastics involved in making everything someone else's fault. My fault. I find myself analyzing these interactions later, almost clinically. The consistent external attribution of negative outcomes, regardless of the direct cause. The complete lack of reciprocal effort. It’s a very consistent pattern. And I participate in it every single time. Every weekend. I make the drive, I clean, I buy, I listen. Why? Because if I don’t, I envision his apartment becoming a biohazard and then I'd feel bad. Or guilty. Or something equally inconvenient. Also, my mom would probably call me. A lot. And ask if I went to see him, if I helped him out, if he’s doing okay. Appearances, you know? Can’t have the neighbors thinking we’re not a close family. So I go. Tonight, I’m just… tired. Bone tired. I have an exam Tuesday and I really should be studying, but my brain is just replaying snippets of his voice from last weekend: "Did you even get the good kind of toothpaste?" It's not anger, exactly. More like a dull ache in my chest, a low hum of resentment that I’m trying to categorize and catalog, like a symptom. I’m just sitting here, watching the streetlights illuminate my suburban street, knowing tomorrow morning I’ll be back in his apartment, probably finding something new and vaguely horrifying in the back of his fridge. And I’ll clean it. And he’ll blame me for something. And the cycle will continue.