He crossed his arms and calmly explained that my brother needed my bedroom. His channel was taking off. He was going to stream seriously now. There were sponsors, contracts, opportunities. What he was doing was an investment.
Mine… we’d see.
I looked at Bruno—barely two days old, his tiny face still marked from the C-section—and felt something inside me tighten.
I told him I couldn’t even bend down, couldn’t lift weight, that the doctor had insisted on rest. He replied that doctors always exaggerate and that now I was a mother. I needed to toughen up.
Two hours later, my mother came to the hospital with a gym bag. She said she’d brought some clothes and that they had already packed my important things. The rest was in storage.
My face burned when I asked if they had emptied my room. She sighed, tired, and told me not to make drama. A C-section was just surgery. She’d been through worse and hadn’t complained. My brother was finally taking off and needed space, silence, and good lighting. I, with the baby, would be crying all day.
It was logical.