Chapter 4: Ghosts in the Garage

My mom was my brother’s stepmother.

She met and married my dad when my brother was fourteen. I’d seen old pictures—him in a tux at their wedding, looking stiff and uncertain. According to the floating comments, his birth mother wasn’t kind to him.

She would hit and yell, refusing him food or sleep. The house he grew up in was filled with broken things and threats whispered behind doors.

She tore up his diary and smashed his favorite model sailboat—the only gift Dad ever gave him. I imagined him watching the pieces scatter, feeling like even small joys weren’t safe.

He loved that boat. Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear him turning the broken hull over in his hands, wood scraping softly on skin.

His arms and legs were always bruised. I’d seen the faded marks when he changed for gym, teachers pretending not to notice.

Those bruises were from his mom’s bad moods. She’d slam doors, throw things, then turn her rage on him without warning.

Her emotions were wild—sometimes she’d sob, sometimes scream. The house was a minefield, every day a gamble.

He’d hold her as she broke down. Even when she hit him, he didn’t dare let go. When she got really bad, she’d use razor blades on herself.

Dad didn’t care. His business trips grew longer and longer. He was barely home, always texting, "Back in a week. Take care of things, okay?"

Eventually, my brother’s mother killed herself in the garage. The garage smelled like burnt rubber and grief for a week. My brother found her.

Then a beautiful woman arrived. She brought warmth—open windows, fresh cookies, jazz on Sundays.

She was kind to my brother. She cooked real food—homemade mac and cheese, roasted chicken, steaming soup. She bought him clean clothes, folded and lavender-scented.

She got him expensive toys and played with him at the amusement park. He watched her, wary but hopeful, like he didn’t believe she was real.

She carefully treated his wounds and stroked old scars, crying as she did. Her tears fell on his skin, making him shiver. It was a strange, warm feeling—like standing in the sun after winter.

He liked her. He watched her with guarded eyes, trust blooming slowly, like spring after frost.

But he wouldn’t call her Mom. Not yet. When Dad scolded him, she’d shield him gently, saying, "He’s just a kid."

He never said it, but in his heart, she was already his mother. I saw the way he looked at her—like he’d finally found someone who wanted him.

Later, she got pregnant. The house buzzed with excitement and nerves. My brother took care of her—brought her crackers, helped her down stairs, set up the nursery.

Whenever she had morning sickness, he brought her water, his worried frown deeper than Dad’s. He hovered, ready to help.

She took his hand and placed it on her belly, smiling. “Evan, do you want a little sister or brother?”

He thought hard, eyes wide. “A little sister. Little sisters are cuter.”

But she frowned, looking at him with a complicated expression, then exchanged a glance with Dad. Some grown-up secret passed between them, one I’d never understand.