as the child who stopped an execution.
To me, he was just my little brother.
The kid who used to sleep with the hallway light on.
That evening we sat together on the back porch.
The sun was disappearing behind the trees.
Mom was inside making dinner.
For a while neither of us spoke.
Then Ethan asked quietly,
“Do you ever think about him?”
I knew who he meant.
Dad.
Not Victor.
Dad.
“Every day,” I admitted.
Ethan nodded.
“So do I.”
The silence returned.
Comfortable.
Heavy.
Necessary.
Then he surprised me.
“I used to feel guilty.”
I turned toward him.
“Guilty?”
He stared at his hands.
“For not speaking sooner.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Because they were the same words I had carried for years.
The same wound.
The same poison.
“You were a child,” I said.
A sad smile crossed his face.
“That’s what Mom says.”
“She’s right.”
He laughed quietly.
“Maybe.”
Then he looked toward the kitchen window where our mother stood.
Warm light spilling around her.
Alive.
Home.
Safe.
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