Page 52 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
As soon as I say it, I regret the words, but I can’t take them back.
Mina—my beautiful, innocent, incredible baby sister—shatters before me, and I feel like the biggest monster on the entire planet for doing this to her. I’ve never been like this before. Ever. Sure, I have a short temper—the shortest. You would, too, if you had my sperm and egg donors as parents.
But I’ve never snapped at Mina.
Never.
Not even once.
Yet, here I am, watching my baby sister splinter before my eyes.
And I did this.
I’m breaking her.
I should have protected her better.
I should have dropped out of high school and gotten my GED years ago.
I’m smart enough to have done that. But I was delusional. I thought that maybe, if I finished high school, I could go to a community college for a couple of years while working and caring for Mina. Then, I’d transfer to a good school in the area, like NYU or Columbia or maybe even Wilton.
Then, I’d be able to get a good job, and we’d be able to live better.
It was a pipe dream, and I risked everything for it.
I risked Mina for it.
I should have gotten my GED. I should have spent the extra time out of school homeschooling Mina and taking extra shifts at the diner. It wouldn’t have been the life I wanted for myself, but I would still have Mina, and I would have made sure that she had a better future than me.
But I chose not to do that.
Instead, I chose to be selfish.
I decided that I deserved to finish high school and go to college when I should have been focusing on Mina and her future. I should have been making decisions that were best for her, not us. Not me.
And now, Mina is suffering because of my actions.
She’s here because of me. Because I didn’t hide our situation well enough.
She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need to bear the brunt of my anger and heartbreak and despondency from last night. Not now, when she’s staying here, at a strange place, under the care of total strangers.
I shouldn’t be taking what happened out on her.
“Hey,” I say gently to Mina, grateful when her tears slow and she turns to face me again. “I’m sorry, Mina. I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired. I love you, okay?”
She nods her head, and despite her tears, a tiny smile lif
ts at the corner of her lips. “I love you, too.” And then, her lower lip trembles, and she says, her voice so full of vehemence for such an innocent, little thing, “I hate it here. I hate it here so much! I wish I could go home with you, Minka.”
I reach forward and cradle her head against my chest. “I know, Mina. I wish you could, too.” And then I whisper, my lips pressed against the crown of her head, “We’ll be together again. I promise.”
And when the time comes to leave her again, I no longer feel dirty. I let the pain inside me darken to anger, embracing the familiarity of it. And I let that fury fuel my resolve.
I can do this.
I have to.
For Mina.
