My mother left us when I was six, but only for a day or two. She said to my brother and I that we had ruined her life and that she was going to kill herself. We made ourselves peanut butter sandwiches.
“She’s just drunk,” he said to me, and we sat on the couch.
“She’s done this before,” I said to him, and we turned on the TV.
“She’ll be back soon,” he said to me eventually, and we fell asleep together as the grey light from the screen flickered across the uneaten sandwiches.
My friends tell me I have to stop sending my brother money. Enabling, they call it. They are right and they are sensible. But I am imperfect and unwise. I am human.