Brian’s POV
I’ve never been the kind of person who needs more than four hours of sleep.
I don’t fight it. Four hours is all I’m given, and four hours is all I need.
I operate just fine on the bare minimum.
It started when I had to turn into a full-time nurse at fifteen, after Mum got sick — bedridden by the cancer that tore through her faster than any of us could keep up with.
She went from healthy to weak, from vibrant to frail, almost overnight.
She was always exhausted. Always doped up on meds, dragging herself to chemotherapy appointments, clinging to hope that didn't exist.
Dad didn’t handle it well.
He was scared, angry, detached — and he did a shitty job hiding it.
He snapped at me, at Hilda, at anyone who got too close. That was his way of dealing with the inevitable
