The Red Sweater

Noah went back to Hannah.

Of course he did.

He knelt in front of her, gently wiping blood from her face, murmuring apologies as if I had attacked an innocent woman.

“Maya, you were too harsh,” he said.

I stood there, breath shaking.

“She hit me first.”

“She is your sister-in-law.”

“She tried to whip me with a belt.”

Noah frowned.

“I raised you. I am like your father. That makes Hannah like your mother. You should be filial.”

Filial.

A word people use when they want obedience without earning respect.

I almost laughed.

Instead, I followed him into the bedroom.

He was folding Hannah’s clothes one by one.

Carefully.

Tenderly.

Like worship.

When he saw me, he smiled awkwardly and lifted a red sweater from the back of the closet.

“Do you remember this?”

Of course I remembered.

He had made it for me.

The first winter after our parents died, I cried because all the girls in class had new coats and I had nothing warm that fit.

Noah bought cheap red yarn from the market and learned to knit from an old woman downstairs.

His stitches were crooked.

The sleeves uneven.

But I wore that sweater for three winters.

He held it now like evidence of a man he had once been.

“Back then,” he said softly, “I folded your clothes like this too.”

My throat hurt.

“Noah.”

He looked up.

For a moment, I saw my brother.

Then he said,

“Later, don’t make things hard for Hannah at dinner.”

The moment shattered.

“I can’t live without your sister-in-law,” he said. “Don’t make me choose.”

But he had chosen.

Every time.

I said nothing.

Instead, I asked,

“Do you want sweet-and-sour ribs?”

He froze.

It was our parents’ memorial day.

When we were children, we were too poor to buy meat except once a year. On that day, we made sweet-and-sour ribs because they had been our mother’s favorite.

Noah’s eyes reddened.

“Sure,” he said.

We cooked together in silence.

He wiped his eyes several times over the stove.

I pretended not to see.

For a brief, foolish moment, I thought maybe the red sweater had reminded him.

Maybe the ribs would.

Maybe some part of my brother could still come back.

Then the front door slammed open.

Hannah walked in with a man.

She glanced at the table.

“What the hell is this?”

Noah brightened nervously.

“Dinner.”

She picked up the plate of sweet-and-sour ribs.

Then threw it into his face.

The sauce splashed down his cheek.

“You know I hate sweet food.”

Noah did not even wipe his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “Next time I won’t cook it.”

Hannah pointed at the man beside her.

“Carl likes fish. Go make some.”

I shook with rage.

“You want fish, cook it yourself. Are your hands broken?”

Hannah smiled.

“Oh, does your brother like sweet-and-sour ribs? He never told me.”

She tilted her head.

“If I had known, I would have made him cook it every day.”

Noah grabbed my wrist.

“Maya, stop.”

I turned to him.

His face was covered in sauce.

His eyes begged me not to make trouble.

“It’s my fault,” he said. “I never told her.”

That was the moment I stopped hoping dinner would save us.