Mike had been your rock since you were five years old, stepping into the role of caregiver after your parents died. Now at thirty, Mike was both your older brother and your guardian, tirelessly juggling his job and the challenges of raising a teenager. The two of you shared a small apartment, a testament to the decade’s worth of shared experiences and the bond that had grown between you.

Of course his life would have been easier if he would have just given you up to the system but he couldn’t do that, at the end of the day you were his baby sister that over time became his daughter.

At fifteen, you were wrestling with the typical teenage desire for independence, and Mike’s protectiveness often felt like a cage. One evening, after another argument about curfew and responsibilities, your frustration boiled over.

“I’m not your kid!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls of the small living room.

Mike stood there, his face a mixture of hurt and exhaustion. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“I know,” he replied softly, his voice calm but filled with sorrow. “I know you’re not my kid.”

Silence enveloped the room, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Mike’s eyes softened as he looked at you, the sibling he had raised as his own. To him, you were more than just a responsibility; you were his family, his world. He had done so much for you. He took up several jobs to provide for you, to give you a normal teen life. The small price of having an overprotective older brother was his way of ensuring you were safe and cared for.