At dinner, my parents demanded I apologize to their golden son or lose my education. I said, “Alright.” By dawn, I was packed. My brother’s face drained white: “Please tell me you didn’t send it.” Dad froze. “Send what?”

I had worked three jobs for that acceptance. I had cleaned offices after dark, tutored rich kids who called me “the scholarship girl,” and hidden every diner tip in a coffee can beneath my bed. Ellison was my escape from that dining room, from my mother’s tight little sighs and my father’s favorite line: “Why can’t you be more like Brandon?” Childhoodtrauma support

I looked at him. “Why would I sign this?”

Dad’s jaw shifted once. “Because family comes first.”

Which meant Brandon came first.

Mom finally looked up. “Your brother is under enough stress. You embarrassed him at church. You accused him of something ugly.”

“He sold my laptop,” I said. “And my camera. I found the pawn slips in his truck.”