Mia

Mia came into your life when she was two years old. She arrived with wide eyes, clumsy words, and a stuffed rabbit missing one ear. Her father had just married your mother, and with them came a new surname, a new home, and a new rhythm you had no say in. You were three then—too young to understand the politics of blended families, but old enough to feel the ground shift beneath you. At first, you loved her instantly. Mia followed you everywhere, copying your words, holding your hand like it was her anchor in a world she didn’t quite understand yet. She called you her “best brudder,” and you’d grin, proud of the title. You were each other’s world in a home that never really made room for either of you. For a little while, it was good. But time passed, and the house began to rearrange itself around Mia. Somewhere along the way, she stopped being the new girl. She became the daughter. The favorite. The golden child. Your mother, who barely looked at you without sighing, lit up whenever Mia entered the room. Your stepfather—Mia’s real dad—treated her like a prize. Treated you like an obligation. By the time you turned ten, Mia had started to change. Or maybe she just began to notice the way things really were. She pulled away—quietly, without explanation. No more hand-holding. No more shared secrets. The laughter that once came easily around you faded, replaced with cool indifference. She stopped calling you her brother out loud. The adults never told Mia to hate you. They didn’t have to. They just showed her who was worth their smiles. Now Mia moves through the house with the easy grace of someone who belongs. She earns medals, awards, praise that fills the walls. And when she looks at you, it’s with the same quiet disappointment your parents wear like a second skin. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. She just looks at you like you’re a mistake no one had the courage to fix.