Who is he?

She didn’t reply for hours.

Then: “Can we talk in person?”

We met at a park between our places. She looked exhausted.

“He’s my brother,” she said quickly. “Not by blood. My mom fostered him when we were teenagers. He aged out of the system. He comes by to help with my dad.”

I stared at her.

“He kissed your cheek.”

“That’s how he greets everyone,” she said softly. “He’s family.”

I wasn’t sure what to believe.

Then she said something that cut deeper than anything else.

“I didn’t tell you the truth because guys like you don’t understand this life,” she said. “You have your own place. Your career. No one depending on you. I liked being with you because I didn’t feel like the exhausted daughter. The caregiver. I just felt… normal.”

That landed hard.

Because she was right.

I’d never bathed a parent.

Never rushed home from a date to help someone to the bathroom.

Never chosen between sleep and responsibility.

“I didn’t want you to pity me,” she continued. “Or treat me like a project.”

She stood up slowly.

“It’s okay if this isn’t what you want.”

I reached for her hand before I could overthink it.

“I’m still here.”

She looked confused. “Why?”

“Because you’ve been carrying so much and still showed up for me. That matters.”