I used to fight with my brother a lot.
Small fights, constant arguments—
the kind that never really meant anything.
It was normal for us.
But even with all that…
my life, until a certain point,
still felt full of happiness.
I think it lasted until I reached fifth grade.
After that…
things started to change.
Not all at once.
Just slowly…
in ways I didn't fully understand at the time.
My mother's condition became more severe.
She started acting differently—
more unpredictable, more difficult to handle.
That was one side of things.
On the other side…
my father started coming home drunk.
At first, it didn't feel like something big.
Just something new.
But then, slowly…
it became something I couldn't ignore.
I started hearing their arguments.
More often.
Louder.
Conversations that didn't end easily.
The house that once felt full…
now felt heavy in a different way.
My father's business began to fail.
And eventually…
he went abroad.
After that,
things became quieter—
but not in a peaceful way.
We started talking less.
Even when we spoke to him,
it didn't feel the same.
Me and my brother…
we were still in contact with him,
but it felt distant.
Like something had changed that couldn't be fixed just by talking.
Around that time,
I changed my school.
I moved to one near my mother's office.
My brother stayed in my old school.
And just like that…
even our daily lives became separate.
Same family.
Different routines.
Different paths.
I had a few friends.
Not many.
Just enough to not feel completely alone outside.
And at home…
things continued the way they had become.
Not the same as before.
But something new.
Something I had to learn to live with.
Without really having a choice.