My parents called at 1 A.M. screaming, “Wire $20,000—your brother’s in the ER!” I asked one question… and they dodged it. So I said, “Call your favorite daughter,” hung up, and went back to sleep. The next morning… police were at my door.

“Stop asking questions,” he snapped. “Do it. If you don’t, he’ll suffer all night.”

He said it like I was the one holding the morphine.

I glanced at the clock. 1:03 a.m. The house was silent, the kind of silence that makes you hear your own pulse in your ears.

“Dad,” I said, forcing my voice level, “tell me the name of the hospital.”

My mom jumped back in, louder now, tears tipping her voice over the edge. “Why are you doing this? He’s your brother!”

That line used to work on me. It used to yank me out of bed, out of my life, straight into Fix-It Mode. I’d grab my purse, open my banking app, and start moving money around like I was plugging holes in a sinking ship.

Because Mark is forty-two and has been “the one with so much potential” since he was twelve. The boy my parents protect, excuse, rescue. Mark has crashed cars, maxed out credit cards, quit jobs with dramatic speeches about “toxic managers,” and somehow always landed back on my parents’ couch like gravity.

And in my family, gravity doesn’t pull everyone equally.