My Brother Said He Was Dying

My brother’s wife cheated on him every month.

Sometimes twice.

Sometimes with men whose names she did not bother to remember.

In public, my brother praised her as if she were a saint.

“My wife is just spirited.”

“She is beautiful, so men naturally chase her.”

“She loves me in her own way.”

Behind closed doors, he called me and cried until his voice broke.

“Maya, your sister-in-law went out again.”

“Maya, she came home smelling like another man.”

“Maya, tell me what to do.”

At first, I told him the obvious.

“Divorce her.”

He recorded my voice.

Then he played it for her.

“See?” he told her. “Everyone thinks you treat me badly, but I still refuse to leave you.”

Again.

And again.

He used my anger as proof of his devotion.

“Everyone is against us,” he would say, “but I still love you.”

Eventually, I stopped answering.

I loved my brother.

But I was tired of being the knife he used to cut himself open so his wife could see him bleed.

Three years passed.

Then one night, my old phone lit up.

A message from Noah.

Maya, save me. Hannah’s lovers came again.

A second message.

They burned me with cigarettes. They stabbed me with needles. The doctor says I have three months left. Why won’t they let me die in peace?

My hands went cold.

I had not spoken to Noah properly in years.

But he was still my brother.

When I was five, our parents died in an accident. Noah was barely more than a boy, but he raised me.

He quit school.

Worked construction.

Washed dishes.

Delivered parcels.

On winter nights, he rubbed my frozen hands until they warmed.

When we had no money for new clothes, he learned to knit and made me a red sweater. His fingers were swollen from the needles, but he smiled when I wore it.

He had once been my whole world.

So when he said he was dying, I went home.

I should have known.

The house door was shut tight.

The curtains drawn.

When I pushed inside, the first thing I saw was Noah sitting on the sofa, carefully feeding grapes to Hannah.

Not dying.

Not trembling.

Not begging for rescue.

Feeding her fruit.

There were injuries on his arms. Bruises. Burns. Thin needle marks.

Those were real.

But everything else was wrong.

I rushed forward and grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me. We’re going to the hospital.”

Hannah laughed.

I looked up.

She sat back like a queen on a dirty throne, red lips curved, eyes full of contempt.

“Little white-eyed wolf,” she said. “Didn’t you say you’d never come back?”

Her smile widened.

“Your brother sends two texts and you run back like a dog. Pathetic.”

I moved between her and Noah.

“I don’t care what you want,” I said. “I’m here now. You won’t hurt him again.”

Hannah picked up a leather belt from beside the sofa.

“What if I do?”

She stood slowly.

“What can you do?”

The belt swung.

I lifted my bag and hit her first.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The metal buckle struck her forehead. Blood appeared immediately.

Hannah screamed.

I grabbed Noah’s arm.

“Move!”

For one second, I thought he would come.

Then his hand tightened around mine.

Not to leave.

To stop me.

I turned.

Noah’s eyes were lowered.

He could not look at me.

“Hannah said,” he whispered, “if I brought you home, she would live properly with me.”

The words landed harder than any slap.

I stared at him.

“You lied about dying?”

He swallowed.

“Maya, I didn’t want to. But your sister-in-law said—”

“Your wife said, so you used me?”

He said nothing.

Hannah pressed a cloth to her bleeding forehead and laughed.

I understood then.

My brother had not called me home to save him.

He had called me home to sacrifice me.

Again.