Page 75 of The Wrong Brother

“You lost everything because you were unstable.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I lost everything because you were scared of what I could show the world about who you really are.”

Memory rises before I can stop it.

Flowers. Dirt beneath rough hands.

My father standing over arrangements in our tiny shop while teaching me how color mattered. Texture mattered. Beauty mattered. My mother laughing as he danced with her. He had been broad-shouldered and rough around the edges, a man people underestimated because he loved delicate things openly.

He never hid softness. That had been his strength.

Then he died, and everything afterward became confusion.

My mother crying behind locked bathroom doors, bills piling higher, men circling like wolves scenting weakness.

Through the eyes of a grieving boy, she seemed to move on too quickly. At the time, it all felt unbearable. Like betrayal stacked on top of grief.

I understand it differently now, sometimes, especially with Kate waiting for me back in California. A widow with a son and no money, trying desperately to survive in a city that devours weakness. But the damage stayed anyway.

Love became temporary after that.People leave,a dark voice whispered to me on nights when she laughed with a new husband.People are replaced.

Andrei watches me carefully from across the table. “You always blamed everyone else for your problems.”

“No,” I say softly. “Mostly I blamed you.”

That finally breaks through his polished exterior. His expression sharpens immediately. “You think I forced you out? You were dangerous.”

“I was grieving. It was onlymonthsafter Mama died.”

“You were volatile.”

“Because my family collapsed.” The last word comes out rougher than intended.

Andrei leans back slowly, studying me with cold calculation. “Father spent years trying to clean this family up. Then you turned yourself into a stereotype.”

“Funny,” I murmur. “Coming from a politician.”

His eyes flash. The tension between us tightens steadily, drawing attention now despite the restaurant trying desperately to pretend otherwise. I notice people glancing over more frequently, phones subtly appearing.

They can feel something coming, like the air shifting just before a storm.

Andrei folds his hands carefully on top of the table. “You are embarrassing this family again. You should’ve stayed where you belong.”

The old anger rises instantly, every insult hiding the same implication:not good enough.

Not clean enough.

Too emotional. Too violent. Too much like my mother after my father died.

“She moved on quickly enough,” he continues. “Almost makes you wonder how devastated she really was. Everyone said it, you know.”

Whore.

He still refuses to say it directly, but the smirk on his face is enough—he never respected our mother, even after everything. Even after bringing him into this world.

I stand abruptly enough that the chair scrapes across the stone. Nearby conversations falter.

Andrei rises too, slower this time. More cautious.