My little brother, Nicholas, named after my grandfather, Nick. He was the closest thing I had to family after the divorce, and by closest, I mean he was still technically breathing, still carrying the same blood, but as far as the universe was concerned, we were moving in two completely different orbits.
The bitterness of my mother came down like a hammer. “He’s your favorite. You take him. You wanted him.” It wasn’t about parenting—it was about punishment. She kept me, she kept Ryan, and then Nicholas—well, Nicholas was an afterthought, a disposable limb to be severed and thrown to my father, the same way you might toss a stray dog a bone and call it charity.
He was the chubby kid, the awkward one with glasses, bow-legged like he had been walking on the backs of horses his whole life. He didn’t fit in anywhere, and it showed. My mom’s world was chaos. But when he visited my dad’s on weekends, he had a different reality—one filled with banana-seat bikes, chrome and shiny, the kind of thing that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, like he had something to be proud of. He rode that thing like it was the last goddamn good thing he’d ever own, tearing through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell, legs pumping, handlebars stretched out like the chopper he’d never afford.
And then, of course, it was gone.
Not because he broke it. Not because he lost it. Because she took it.
I watched as my mother loaded that bike into the back of the Vega, her face set in stone, already rehearsing whatever bullshit lie she was going to tell the return desk at Alpha Beta. No receipt, but plenty of rage. “I want my money back.” And if they said no? She’d just raise the temperature until they buckled. I had watched her do it before. The manager cracked. Store credit. $130 for a bike she bought for $20. She walked out of there victorious, like she had just robbed a goddamn bank, except the only person who lost was my brother, who would come back the next weekend to a house with no bike, no toys, no trace that he had ever existed there at all.
That was the moment he learned what he was worth. Not much.
After a while, he just stayed at my dad’s. My mom didn’t fight it. She was too busy with her own life.
But at my dad’s, Nicholas was just another thing to manage. Another problem to be handled. He was white in a neighborhood that didn’t want white kids, soft in a world that didn’t tolerate softness, living in a house that had no warmth to spare. He was an outcast, the kind that never quite figures out why he’s different, just that he is.
And when I finally got myself kicked out and landed at my grandmother’s, Nicholas was already there, being babysat while my father worked nights at the post office, shuffling mail in the dark while his son sat in the living room trying to piece together where the hell he was supposed to belong.
I was running five miles a day by then, my body growing lean, muscles forming, mind sharpening, and my grandfather would watch, arms crossed, nodding like he was confirming some silent truth to himself. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” He’d say it just loud enough for Nicholas to hear.
Meanwhile, my grandmother would coo over me, rubbing my shoulders, telling me I was so handsome, that one day, Nicholas would grow up to be just like me. It was passive-aggressive praise, the kind that cut deep, the kind that left wounds you don’t see until years later when you’re standing in front of a mirror wondering why you hate yourself so much.
Nick sat there, chubby, glasses slipping down his nose, bow-legged and awkward, never saying a word. He just absorbed it, just took it all in, like a sponge soaking up poison.
He was never going to be me. He knew it. They knew it. And I knew it.
~
He got older, taller, a little stronger, a little better looking, but there was something missing. Some people just don’t have it. Some people never get it. And Nick? He was one of those people.
I tried to help. I had him move in with me in Milwaukee, Oregon, when he was around eighteen. Tried to set him up with a job, tried to get him out of his own head, into the world.
At first, he got work at an oil change place. Henry’s. Or maybe it was Grease Monkey. Doesn’t matter. It was the kind of place that let guys like him feel like they were part of something, even if all they did was upsell windshield wipers and pretend they knew what the hell they were talking about.
And he was good at it.
“Oh, I convinced them to change out their oil for a nickel more per gallon, and they didn’t even need it! Hahaha!”
That was his thing. He knew cars. He could tell you the year, the model, the specs. But when it came to getting under the hood, actually fixing something? Forget it. He was all show, no go.
Eventually, I moved. He went back to California. Got another job doing the exact same thing. He had a leg up. A chance. And then, as always, he fucked it up.
~
The great tragedy of my brother was that he believed his own hype.
He talked fast. Too fast. Like a con artist trying to convince himself before he convinced anyone else. He loved NASCAR, loved the idea of being a race car driver. But actually doing it? That was different.
Someone gave him a shot. Gave him a car. Put him on a track.
Race day came, and he was so far behind that they pulled him off the track. “You’re a hazard.”
He tried again. Engine failure. Gas issue. Every excuse in the book.
It was never his fault.
And it never would be.
~
My father died alone in a basement.
And Nick? He couldn’t even handle that.
I told him, “You’re the man of the family now. Handle Dad’s affairs.”
He said he could. He said he would.
He didn’t.
And I knew he wouldn’t.
Because some men never rise. Some men are built for failure. Some men have been drowning since the day they were born, and no matter how many ropes you throw them, no matter how many goddamn lifeboats show up, they’ll find a way to sink.
Nick was weak. He was twisted up by a mother who never gave a shit about him, still doesn’t, but like a dog that gets scraps from its abusive owner, he kept running back.
The biggest disappointment of my life isn’t me.
It’s him.
Not because he failed.
But because he never even tried.
~
Some people live their whole lives standing outside, looking in. They see the door open. They see the chances. But they don’t step through. They just stand there, waiting for someone to shove them forward, and when no one does, they call it fate, call it bad luck, call it anything but what it really is.
Cowardice.
You can tell yourself that life screws some people and blesses others, but in the end, it comes down to the same thing.
You either take the shot, or you don’t.
Nick never took it. And now, he never will.
And when my father looked at me on his deathbed and said, “You’re the smart one.” I realized something.
He wasn’t just saying I was intelligent.
He was saying I was the one who wasn’t afraid.
And that’s the difference between living and dying before you’re even dead.
