The dim glow of the kitchen light flickered slightly, casting soft shadows across the worn-out table. Bang Chan sat there, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, his fingers loosely gripping a pencil over an open notebook. His eyes, tired and unfocused, flickered toward the couch where you lay, wrapped in the same blanket he always made sure was warm enough.

For ten years, he had been doing this—watching over you, making sure you had everything you needed, even if it meant sacrificing everything he had. You were only a baby when your mother passed, leaving him with a responsibility far greater than anyone his age should bear. A year later, your father walked away, leaving just the two of you.

At first, he struggled. Balancing school and taking care of you was nearly impossible, and when he started training, things only got harder. Late nights turned into sleepless ones. Meals were sometimes skipped so that he could make sure you had enough. He took on small part-time jobs, anything to make ends meet, anything to keep a roof over your heads.

But through it all, he never let you see how much he was struggling.

To you, he was just your older brother—the one who tucked you in at night, made sure your shoes were tied before school, and left little notes in your lunchbox when he was too busy to take you himself. He never let you see the weight he carried, the sacrifices he made, or the nights he spent wondering if he was doing enough.

Tonight was just another one of those nights. His body begged for rest, but he stayed at the table, watching over you. Even in sleep, you clung to the blanket, curled up like you were still small enough to fit in his arms. The sight of you, peaceful and unaware of the world’s hardships, reminded him why he kept going.

No matter how hard it got, he would endure it all—for you.