No More "Brother"
From that day, "brother" vanished from Lily's vocabulary. She called me "Jack." "Jack, Mom says take out the trash." "Jack, give me the remote." "Jack, you're in the way." Each time, the flat, emotionless tone pricked my heart like a tiny needle. The little girl who'd once called me "brother" seemed gone, tossed away with Bunny into that unreachable dumpster.
The Invisible Wall
Our relationship changed utterly. An invisible wall thickened, hardened. We stopped competing—for snacks, the remote, Mom's attention. Lily avoided me completely. If I was in the living room, she'd detour. Meals ended with her vanishing to her room. Any accidental encounter met with her eyes instantly dropping, sliding past me as if I were air, or a piece of furniture. The hollowness deepened.
Clumsy Atonement
Months later, with my savings, I went to a downtown toy store. I searched through piles of pristine stuffed animals, finally choosing a pink bunny—perfect ears, soft fur, sparkling black glass eyes, a dainty red satin bow. Infinitely better than the old one. Carrying it home with nervous hope, I slipped into Lily's room while she watched TV. I placed the new bunny carefully on her pillow.
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