I got a call from my mom, asking me to pick up my brother from school. Her voice was tired. I drove there, found him waiting outside and brought him home. As soon as we went inside she said, “I need to lie down for a bit. Just watch your brother for a while.”she looked pale. Not sick-sick, but that kind of drained look people get when life’s been leaning too heavy on them. I nodded and said, “Of course,” even though I had plans to meet my friends later.
My little brother, Arman, was only 9. Bright kid. Too observant sometimes. He sat on the couch flipping through some superhero comic. I made us both a sandwich and we ended up watching old cartoons like we used to.A couple of hours passed. Mom hadn’t come out of her room. I knocked gently, then cracked the door open. She was asleep. Or at least, I thought so. Her breathing was soft, almost too soft. I stood there watching her for a minute, something uneasy curling in my stomach.
