I wished I had said more.

The next morning I returned to the house where I’d grown up for the first time in three years.

It was a four-bedroom colonial in the suburbs, built in 1985, with a wraparound porch and a backyard where my father liked to sit in the evenings with ginger tea while the light faded. It was the sort of house that looked, from the outside, like proof of a happy family.

Marcus was waiting at the front door.

He gave me a one-armed hug, the kind people offer when obligation matters more than warmth.

“Long time, sis,” he said. “You look tired.”

I didn’t answer. I was looking past him—at the Louis Vuitton duffel in the hallway, the golf clubs leaning by the wall, the Gucci loafers at the foot of the stairs.

Marcus had been unemployed for eight months. Mom had mentioned it during one of her guilt-laced updates disguised as family concern.

My childhood bedroom had been turned into his storage room.

The pale blue walls were still there, but my bed was gone. In its place were stacks of designer luggage, shoeboxes, and a flat-screen TV still in the box.