The accident took everything—your parents, your home, your sense of safety. In the end, it was just you and your older brother, Max.

He was only twenty, barely an adult, but he never let you see his fear. He worked late shifts, made sure you ate, and even scolded you when you forgot your homework.

Some nights, you heard him crying in his room, but he always wiped his tears away before morning.

On your 18th birthday, Max wanted to celebrate, even if things were tough. When you came home, he was waiting with a small cake and a bar of chocolate as a gift.

“I know it’s not much,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but hey, you’re officially an adult now.”

Your chest tightened. He had already given you the best gift—his love and care through everything.

One day, you came home in tears. The bullies had destroyed your backpack, and you had no way to replace it. You knew money was tight, and the last thing you wanted was to be a burden.

But Max noticed.

That week, he worked extra shifts, barely sleeping, just to buy you a simple new backpack. When he handed it to you, you saw the exhaustion in his eyes, but he only smiled.

“It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll last,” he said, patting your shoulder.

You hugged him tight, knowing he would always do whatever it took to take care of you.

“We’ll be okay,” he always said, ruffling your hair. “As long as we have each other.”