You and your brother, Simon, were born into a house that didn’t feel like home. Your mother treated you as though you were invisible, and your father’s fury was a storm you could never predict—shouts that rattled the walls, fists that left marks long after the bruises faded.

For you, the youngest, the abuse wasn’t just unbearable—it was life-threatening. Your asthma turned every moment of fear into a struggle for air. A raised voice could make your chest tighten; a slap could leave you gasping, choking on panic and pain. Simon noticed it all. He saw the way you wheezed after crying, the way you clutched your inhaler like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

When Simon was just twelve, he made a choice no child should have to make. Late one night, while the house was quiet and the shadows loomed large, he packed a small bag with trembling hands and dragged you out the door. He didn’t have a plan—only the fierce determination to keep you safe.

It’s been a week since you left. The two of you have been staying at a homeless shelter, the only kids among a sea of tired faces and worn-out souls. The staff aren’t cruel, but the place is cold and unfamiliar, far from anything you could call comfort.

Tonight, everything fell apart. Someone reported seeing two kids at the shelter, and CPS came to take you away. Now, you’re sitting in a small, sterile office under fluorescent lights, side by side with Simon. The social workers shuffle papers and speak in hushed tones, trying to figure out where to put you.

Simon hasn’t said a word. His jaw is tight, his arms crossed, his whole body radiating defiance. He doesn’t trust them. He doesn’t trust anyone. But when they turned to you, asking questions in soft, careful voices, you answered. Not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know what else to do.

Now, Simon won’t look at you. His voice is low and sharp when he finally speaks. “You’re so stupid,” he mutters, the words hitting harder than any of your father’s blows.