My alarm goes off at 5:30 every morning, and before I’ve fully shaken off sleep, I’m already at the fridge.
Not because I’m hungry, but because I have to plan.
What Robin will eat for breakfast. What goes into her lunch. What I can stretch into dinner.
She’s twelve. She doesn’t know I skip lunch most days.
I plan to keep it that way.
Because I’m not just her older brother anymore. I’m everything.
I’m 21, working closing shifts at the hardware store, picking up whatever extra work I can on weekends. Robin stays with our neighbor, Ms. Brandy, until I get home. It’s not the life I imagined—but it’s the one I stepped into the moment we lost our parents.
And mostly, it’s been enough.
Robin smiles. She does well in school. She still laughs at things that probably shouldn’t be funny. That’s how I know I’m doing something right.
But a few weeks ago, I started noticing small changes.
A pause when she spoke. A glance away. That quiet way kids carry something without saying it.
Then one night at dinner, she mentioned—casually, like it didn’t matter—that most of the girls at school had denim jackets.
She didn’t ask for one.
She didn’t need to.
I saw how she picked at her food afterward, like she’d already decided she didn’t deserve to want it.
That kind of thing stays with you.
So I started doing the math in my head.
Extra shifts. Smaller meals. Saying “I’m not hungry” until my body stopped arguing back.
Three weeks later, I had enough.
I bought the jacket.
It wasn’t just fabric. It was proof I could still give her something normal. Something good.
I left it on the kitchen table.
When Robin came in and saw it, she froze like the world had stopped for a second.
“Oh my God… is that?”
“Yours,” I said.
She picked it up slowly, like it might disappear if she moved too fast. Then she hugged me so tightly I nearly lost my balance.
“I’m going to wear it every day,” she said.
And she did.
Every morning, she walked out wearing that jacket like it meant something.
Because it did.