“I understand,” I said. And I did. Completely. I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I hung up the phone and sat there in the noise of the barracks, feeling something inside me settle into place. Cold. Clear.
Two days later, I was back in my tiny off-base apartment, moving on crutches. Every step was a reminder of what was at stake. The pain meds dulled the edge, but not the fear. I ran numbers over and over in my head—credit cards, payday loans, anything that could buy me time.
There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find my brother standing there. Grease-stained jacket, dark circles under his eyes. He worked at a mechanic shop outside town—sixty hours a week, minimum wage, hands permanently scarred.
He looked at my leg and swore under his breath. “They didn’t help you,” he said. Not a question. I shook my head. Without another word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills—tens, twenties, crumpled and worn. He pressed them into my hand. “Eight hundred,” he said. “I sold my tools. All of them.”
I stared at him. “You need those,” I said.
“I need you walking,” he replied. “I’ll figure the rest out.”
My parents had assets, savings, equity, a boat they’d named after a vacation spot they’d only been to once. My brother had nothing, and he gave me everything. I took the money. Not because it was enough—it wasn’t even close. I took it because I needed to remember this moment. Needed to remember who showed up when I was bleeding.
As he left, he squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “You always are.” He didn’t know what was coming next. But I did.
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