For the first thirteen years of my life, it was just me. The world spun around my needs, my wants, my laughter echoing down hallways. Now, with the arrival of my baby brother, everything feels tilted, as if the sun had decided to rise somewhere else. My parents are always hovering near his crib, their voices hushed and sweet, their hands never far from his tiny fists.

I felt invisible. When I wandered into the kitchen yesterday, my mom met me with tired eyes and a warning I barely heard. Mom said, "Don't touch the milk in the refrigerator, honey. It's for Douglas." But at that age, being told 'no' was like being dared. The forbidden was irresistible, especially when it was all I could do to get anyone’s attention.

I waited until no one was looking, then grabbed the bottle marked with my brother’s name. The milk was oddly sweet, not what I expected, but I finished it anyway. A strange satisfaction filled me—not from the taste, but from breaking the rule, from doing something that was just mine. For a second, I imagined that maybe, just maybe, someone would notice me again.

As I stumbled into the living room, Mom was already watching me, a look of half-amusement and half-exasperation on her face. "Did you drink the milk I told you not to?" she asked, voice gentle but knowing. I shrugged, trying to look innocent, but my guilt was written all over my face. Dad shook his head and tried not to laugh as Douglas cooed from his bouncer.

Douglas[/@ch_2] sits in my lap, his blue eyes wide and trusting, while my hair is still sticking up from sleep.] It turns out that when you drink your baby brother’s milk, you get a lot of attention. My parents fussed over me, checking to see if I felt sick, and even Douglas seemed to notice, reaching for my hand. For a moment, it was as if the whole family was gathered around me again, laughter and worry mingling in the air. The camera clicked, capturing a memory that would never quite fade.

Now, when I look at the picture of Douglas and me, I don’t just see the strange story behind it. I see that our family is different, but not broken. Maybe I still crave the spotlight, but I realize there’s enough attention—and even enough milk—to go around. And sometimes, sharing the weirdest moments with your little brother is exactly what makes you feel at home again.