I’ve never told a loved one “I love you” before. Not to my grandparents. Not to my parents. Not to my older brother.

Until my 12th birthday. I’d like to forget it.

We were the only ones in the little waiting room at the ICU. It smelled like hand sanitizer and the bright lights were too overstimulating to stand. I kept my head down. Hot tears stung the corners of my eyes, blurring the world around me. Mom was turned to a corner, sobbing and pleading for better news. The knives of life were jabbing at me again. It occurred to me the second time this day that the rose-colored glasses had fallen off. My brother Anthony was on a cold bed fighting to live.

His crackled yelling through the phone receiver played in a memory. Sometimes it was about money, a car, or for mom and dad to get him out of trouble again. His arguments with our parents started to get in between whatever problems they had going on in their marriage, and strangely I was thankful for that. But my childlike wonder couldn’t see how far gone Anthony was. Schools always had the D.A.R.E. program on speed dial, showing us the dangers of substance abuse. We got the preachings almost every year. Still, somehow, I had missed every sign.

Just before the day we came here, I thought in a daze, I was walking home from school in excitement. The neighborhood was littered with wet orange leaves and jack-o-lanterns on stoops. A friend of mine had invited me to go to a Halloween party that some 8th graders were throwing. I didn’t know them. I don’t know how she knew them. But I was antsy about being around older kids because I knew I had to impress them. If I went to the party dressed in the Powerpuff Girl costume I picked out, no one would take me seriously. Come to think of it, I could’ve done anything for their approval.

The house was eerily quiet when I walked in. For once, there was no screaming. Mom was standing in the kitchen, frozen in place, phone close to her ear. I couldn’t hear Anthony’s voice on the other line at all. It sounded more like an automated message playing. The words weren’t registering.

Calmly, she put the phone back in the switchhook. Her weak eyes caught mine.

“Rube. Sit,” she told me.

I tried to think of a million things I could’ve done wrong. The tired creases in her face became stern, going deeper into her skin. That happened whenever she was about to start lecturing.

Mom took a breath, closed her eyes tight, and said “You’re not going to the party tomorrow.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Why?!”

“The principal just called because some older kids at your school have been giving out laced candy,” She sat beside me at the dining table and reached for my hands to grab on. “Do you remember when I used to tell you to always check your candy after trick-or-treating?”

“And I never listened.”

“I need you to be more cautious from now on. I can’t keep an eye on you 24/7.”

The rest of the conversation wouldn’t come to me. I did remember the whisper of her prayer of not having something happen to me too. Thinking back on it, that was another clue. But I was more upset at the fact that I would miss the Halloween party with all the cool kids.

Then out of nowhere — and I don’t remember why I blurted this, “When will we see Anthony again?”

It was going on two years since I had last seen him. I guess that was just my next thought.

Mom sighed and as she did, the lines on her face seemed to grow darker. “He doesn’t want you to see him right now.” her hands shook in mine.

A big pang formed in my throat. What could I have done wrong? I wondered that for months.

Two years ago, I had neglected how unnaturally pale my brother had become. How the skin around his eyes was pulling tight and how his bones were practically clawing past the tissue. How the super cool tattoo that he’d shown me on his arm was surrounded by puncture wounds. One blink and we were at the hospital. Each teardrop rolling down my cheek was regret in gold.

I wasn’t one to show my emotions. Anthony knew that. He’d tease me and call me a big baby if he saw me. There was nothing that I could’ve done, and I think that was why the spawn of guilt was eating me alive. I couldn’t stop his suffering.

It grew quiet for a moment as Mom’s sobs came to a stop. She dabbed under her eyes with a crumpled tissue and resorted to wrapping her arms around herself, rocking in the chair. I snapped the black and red D.A.R.E. bracelet on my wrist that they had given out at the last assembly. I focused on the reverberating sound of its popping until it got annoying. Being away from the present was the only thing that helped right now.

Dad stalked back to the waiting room minutes later. His face was pulled in a distraught look. He was getting deep, tired crease lines just like Mom. It looked like he would faint at any moment.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “He’s gone.”

It killed me to my core that I wouldn’t be able to hold him one last time. I wasn’t allowed in the room because I was underage. So I dropped down on my knees in front of the door of his room as gutted cries burned my throat. It couldn’t have been true. None of this was connecting to reality.

“Please, Anthony!” My voice wasn’t trusting itself. Only hiccups were able to pass through.

Could he even hear me?

“I love you, Anthony.”

I repeated that until I went numb.