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My mom called a cab for herself the next morning. She was gone by the time I woke, so I assumed she had gone back to my father, who blocked me from his email, his f*******:, his phone, his everything. I felt dead to him.
Jesse asked how I was every day, but it was the same answer. I was fine. If I were being honest, I’d tell him that I hadn’t processed anything. I didn’t think about my brother killing himself. I couldn’t imagine the letter he gave my mother. I didn’t want to know about the extent of his depression. And I really couldn’t handle knowing that there was a little Ethan in the world somewhere that I couldn’t hug. Most days, I would find myself staring off at my brother’s portrait, lost in thoughts my brain blocked from my recollection.
It hurt.
My brother had hurt me. Aga
