CHAPTER TEN — Brothers Who Depend on Her
Elara
Motel rooms are designed to make people temporary.
Nothing settles. Nothing belongs. The walls are thin, the furniture bolted down, the air always faintly damp no matter how often the sheets are changed. You don't unpack because there's no point. You don't hang pictures because you're not staying. You don't breathe too deeply because everything smells like someone else's life passing through.
We moved through three of them in two months.
Always the cheapest. Always paid weekly, sometimes nightly. Always near highways so no one asked questions when families came and went without explanation.
The first night, Aaron thought it was an adventure.
He bounced on the bed, laughing when the springs squealed beneath his weight. "We're on vacation," he said, grinning at me like this was something I'd planned on purpose.
Lucas didn't smile.
At fourteen, he stood by the window with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring out at the parking lot as if something important might appear between the flickering streetlights and oil-stained asphalt. He didn't touch the bed. Didn't sit.
He just stood there, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, too old to believe this was temporary and too young to do anything about it.
My mother sat on the edge of the mattress, quiet and pale, her hands folded in her lap. She looked smaller than she had in the house. Like the walls had already begun pressing in on her.
I assigned places without discussion.
Mom and Aaron on the bed. Lucas on the second bed when there was one—on the floor when there wasn't. Me in the chair or against the wall. Whoever slept least would need to function most.
That was usually me.
Lucas stopped talking to me properly during the second week.
He still answered when spoken to. Still followed instructions. Still watched Aaron when I needed to leave the room. But something hardened in him, a quiet resentment that wrapped itself around his bones.
He was tall for his age, all limbs and tension, his body racing ahead of the boy still trying to catch up. He had my father's eyes—dark, watchful, proud—and that made everything worse.
Because every time he looked at me, I saw the question he wouldn't ask.
Why you?
Why not me?
One night, in a motel that smelled like bleach and old smoke, I came back from the vending machines with a paper cup of instant noodles balanced in my hands. Lucas was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, homework spread around him like he'd given up halfway through.
"They don't care," he muttered without looking up.
"Who?" I asked.
"School. Teachers. Anyone."
I set the cup down. Sat beside him, my back against the bed too. The carpet scratched through my jeans.
"They care," I said carefully. "They just don't know how to fix this."
He let out a sharp laugh. "You always say that."
"Because it's true."
He turned to face me then, anger finally cracking the surface. "You're eighteen. You don't know what you're talking about."
The words stung more than I expected.
"I know we don't have a house," he continued. "I know Dad's gone. I know Mom can barely get out of bed some days. And I know you keep pretending this is fine."
"I'm not pretending," I said quietly.
"You are," he snapped. "You keep smiling at people. You keep saying thank you. You keep acting like this is temporary."
I didn't answer.
Because if I stopped acting like it was temporary, I wasn't sure I could stand up again.
"I could work," he said suddenly. "I could help."
"You're fourteen," I said immediately.
"So?" He pushed himself to his feet. "I can get a job. I can quit school if I have to."
"No," I said, sharper now. "You will not quit school."
"You don't get to decide everything," he shot back.
I stood too. The room felt smaller suddenly, like it was listening.
"I get to decide this," I said. "Because someone has to."
His hands curled into fists. "You're not Mom."
"No," I agreed. "I'm not."
The silence that followed was thick and ugly.
Aaron shifted on the bed, pretending not to listen. My mother stared at the television without really watching it, exhaustion etched into every line of her face.
Lucas looked at all of us, something like panic flickering behind his anger.
"I didn't ask for this," he said.
Neither did I, I wanted to say.
Instead, I said, "I know."
That night, I found him in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at his knuckles. They were red and scraped, the wall bearing the faint outline of his frustration.
I grabbed the first aid kit from my bag—one of the few things I always kept close—and knelt in front of him without a word.
He didn't pull his hand away.
I cleaned the cuts carefully. Wrapped them. My fingers were steady even though my chest felt tight.
"I hate this," he whispered.
"I know," I said.
"I hate watching you do everything."
I looked up at him then. "I don't need you to be a man," I said softly. "I need you to be my brother."
His throat bobbed. He nodded once.
Aaron depended on me differently.
At ten, he still believed answers existed. That adults knew what they were doing. That if he asked the right question, the right solution would appear.
He followed me everywhere in the motel rooms. Sat on the bed while I made phone calls. Leaned against my leg while I counted money. Fell asleep with his head on my lap while I filled out forms by the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
"Are we poor?" he asked one night, his voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner.
I hesitated. "We're… adjusting."
He frowned. "Will Dad come back when we're done adjusting?"
I swallowed hard. "No."
He was quiet for a long time after that.
My mother tried. God, she tried. But her body betrayed her more often than not. Some mornings she couldn't stand without help. Some days she slept through meals. The doctor said stress made everything worse. I knew grief had simply hollowed her out.
So I became the constant.
I negotiated weekly rates with motel managers who looked at me like I was trouble waiting to happen. I packed and unpacked the same bag over and over. I learned which vending machines swallowed money and which ones actually worked.
I learned how to stretch twenty dollars into three meals.
I learned how to say "We're fine" with a straight face.
Lucas watched everything. Quiet now. Observant. Angry in a way that had nowhere to go.
Aaron trusted me completely.
That was the part that scared me most.
Because if I failed, I wouldn't just fall alone.
I would take them with me.
And every night, lying awake in rooms that were never ours, listening to the breathing of my family around me, I understood the truth I couldn't say out loud yet.
I wasn't just their sister anymore.
I was the thing holding them together.
And I couldn't afford to break.