I remember when it started, like a shift in the air, a faint metallic taste at the back of my throat. I was sixteen, had just snagged my first job at the Quick Mart, stocking shelves, smelling like stale coffee and desperation at the end of every Friday night. My brother, Liam, he was eleven. Scrawny kid, all knees and elbows, always looked a bit pale, but we didn’t think much of it. Then came the diagnosis, something with his insides, nothing fatal, but long-term. Required pills, special diets, regular doctor visits. And just like that, the world tilted. It wasn't a big bang, more like a slow leak. First, it was the dishes. My job, every night after dinner, a mountain of grease and crumbs. Suddenly, Mom would say, “Liam’s not feeling up to it, sweetie. You got it?” And I’d just nod, hot water scalding my hands, watching him sprawl on the sofa, remote in hand, a faint glow from the TV screen painting his face blue. I remember a Tuesday, exactly 7:17 PM, the night I was supposed to take out the trash, a chore I despised. Mom stopped me at the door, “Liam’s got that blood test tomorrow, probably feeling weak. Can you handle it?” The black bin liners, heavy with the week’s kitchen detritus, felt like they weighed a hundred pounds that night. The chores, they piled up on my side of the ledger like debts I never asked for. His bedroom, always a disaster zone of discarded clothes and half-eaten snack wrappers, remained untouched. Mine, if it wasn't spotless by Saturday morning, I'd get the look. The silent judgment that spoke volumes. The grass needed mowing? My hands, calloused and scraped from lugging boxes at work, would be pushing that old rattling mower under the afternoon sun. Liam would be inside, cool and comfortable, playing his PlayStation, a muted symphony of explosions and digital gunfire drifting through the open window. It felt like I was running on a treadmill, perpetually chasing a horizon that kept receding. And the food. Oh, the food. We grew up on budget meals, tuna casserole, spaghetti with jarred sauce, the occasional treat of frozen pizza on a Friday. But for Liam, after his diagnosis, it was suddenly organic chicken breasts, fresh steamed vegetables, gluten-free everything. I’d watch him pick at his plate, occasionally push it away, and I’d be eating my instant ramen, the steam stinging my eyes. It wasn't about the food itself, you know? It was the unspoken message it carried, a heavy blanket of preferential treatment that settled over everything. Like his discomfort was a currency, and mine, well, mine was just background noise. I remember once, I was nineteen, saving up for community college. Every spare dime went into a shoebox under my bed. My ancient Honda Civic, a hand-me-down from Dad, started making a godawful clanking sound. I told Mom it needed fixing. She sighed, "We'll see, hon. Liam needs new shoes for school, his foot grew another size." I just nodded. The clanking became a permanent fixture, a metallic cough every time I drove, a constant reminder of priorities. It felt like I was constantly treading water, trying to keep my head above the tide, while Liam was just… floating. It's been years now. I’m pushing forty, got my own kids, my own bills that come in like clockwork, relentless. And Liam, he’s doing fine. He’s got a good job, a nice apartment. His condition? It's still there, mild, managed. He still mentions it sometimes, an almost offhand remark about how "tough" things were for him as a kid. And I just smile, a flat, practiced movement of the muscles around my mouth. Inside, though, it’s like a tiny, frozen pebble in the pit of my stomach. I see it in other families sometimes. The one kid who gets the extra slice, the easier path, the whispered concern. And I catch myself watching, a strange, detached curiosity. Wondering if the other kid, the one carrying the load, feels that same silent hum of resentment, that dull ache that never quite fades. It's not hate, not really. It’s more like a worn-out flannel shirt. Familiar, a little itchy, always there. Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and the only sound is the hum of the fridge, I think about all those little things. The trash bins, the dirty dishes, the clanking car. They stack up, not as individual grievances, but as one long, unbroken shadow stretching out behind me. And I wonder, if things had been different, just a little bit, would I feel lighter now? Would the air taste less like old coins? God, sometimes it just feels like… a lot. Like I’m still carrying those heavy black bin liners, even after all these years.