Lance Louise, epi-3

I was 19 years old at the time, and I continued to live my life as usual. Despite the fact that I was his blood sister, he never glanced at me. Although I didn't mean to, I couldn't take my eyes off of him. If he weren't my brother, someone might think I'm stalking him. I always tried new things to get his attention.

I always tried new things to get his attention.

A new haircut. A different perfume. A new book I’d hope he’d ask about if he saw me reading in the garden. I even tried cooking once—something simple, the soup Mom used to make. But he never came into the kitchen, and the soup went cold.

Even when I fell sick again, it didn’t matter. The doctor came. The nurse came. He didn’t.

My life felt like a long hallway with all the doors closed, except the one at the end that had his name carved on it—but it was locked from the inside.

I was always left knocking.

When I turned twenty, I didn’t throw a tantrum. I didn’t try to force a smile or pretend it was a normal day. I just sat in my room, the one with the wooden chair, and stared out the window. Rain fell. The kind of soft, slow rain that looked more like sorrow than weather.

And then… I saw him.

He stood under the tree Dad had planted when I was born. The tree with the crooked branches, the one that leaned left like it was still learning to grow.

He was just standing there, unmoving, staring at the bark.

I don’t know what came over me, but I walked out barefoot, not caring about the cold ground or the fact that I hadn’t spoken a word to him in years. I just wanted to see if he remembered. If he still remembered that tree.

My feet stopped a few paces behind him. I didn’t speak.

“I hated you,” he said.

The words came out with no warning. Not even a glance in my direction.

“But I hated myself more.”

My breath caught. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t warm. But it was something. More than silence.

“I was supposed to be there that day,” he said. “Dad asked me to come. I said no because I had a game. Because I was a teenager who thought he had all the time in the world.”

The rain began to soak through my shirt, but I didn’t move.

“I blamed you because it was easier than blaming myself,” he continued, voice low and heavy. “You were just a kid. And I... I needed someone to hate me more than I hated myself.”

He finally turned around.

His face—older now, sharper, no longer the boyish smile I remembered—was twisted with something raw. Regret? Grief? Guilt?

Maybe all three.

I wanted to run to him. To tell him it was okay. But I stood there in silence as tears dripped from my face and I had a sad smile.

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