I swallowed hard, staring up at the dark ceiling, wondering about the boy sleeping next door. My mind wouldn’t stop racing, and the questions came flooding in, relentless and impossible to ignore. What must it feel like to be him? To be that boy next door, lying in a bed that wasn’t his own, in a house that didn’t feel like a home? What would it be like to go to bed hungry, to wake up with nothing but the sound of my own empty belly? To face abuse and neglect, never knowing the comfort of kind words or a gentle touch? I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to imagine it, trying to put myself in his shoes.

I ended up crying into my pillow.

The shame was suffocating, pressing down on me from all sides. It washed over me in waves, one after another, until I couldn’t tell where the shame ended and the tears began.

I realized, with a sickening clarity, how privileged I’d been, how cruel my jealousy seemed in the face of his suffering.

I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, trying to block out the remorse, trying to muffle the sobs that racked my body.

I cried until there were no more tears left to shed, until my body felt numb and exhausted, and my throat was raw, like I’d been screaming for hours. Every inch of me felt drained, empty, and yet still full of so much regret that I could hardly bear it.

At some point, the sound of Dad’s voice reached me from the hallway, rough and hoarse. “It was awful, Jenna. You wouldn’t believe it. The house was in ruins. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen. The walls were cracked, the windows shattered, the air thick with the smell of decay. He was sleeping in a pillowcase, trying to get warm. Can you imagine that? A damn pillowcase. For days, he was left there, on the concrete floor, surrounded by cockroaches. And when he saw me…” His voice cracked, and I could hear him take a shaky breath. “He was terrified, Jenna. He knelt down and begged me not to hurt him. And when I told him he was safe, that he didn’t have to be afraid anymore, he collapsed into me. I could feel his whole body shaking, like he was holding onto me for dear life. And then he cried. He cried like I’ve never seen anyone cry.”

The tears that had dried on my face were replaced by fresh ones, burning streaks down my cheeks.

That night, I woke up twice to the sound of Blake screaming, quickly followed by the hurried footsteps of my father running down the hall. A mix of panic and helplessness crashed over me as I lay there, unable to move, forced to listen.