I was five years old when they said those things to me.
Five. They expected a five-year-old to swallow every ounce of jealousy, every flicker of hurt, and devote himself entirely to a screaming lump of flesh that hadn't even been born yet.
Back then, I'd felt it, dim and wordless, the sense that something was about to be taken from me. I was terrified. So I told Mom and Dad that I wanted to be their only baby forever.
Mom's face twisted. She jabbed a finger at me and screamed, "I always knew you were the jealous type! You can't even tolerate your own brother!"
I didn't understand what she meant. All I knew was that she was angry.
So I sobbed and told her I was sorry. I said I was wrong. I said I wanted a little brother to play with.
Only then did she smile. But later that night, she whispered to Dad when she thought I couldn't hear: "I saw a story online about an eight-year-old boy who pushed his pregnant mother down the stairs. Who knows if that little brat would snap and come after me? I think we should send him back to the countryside. We can deal with him after Lucius Galloway is born."