I’m 19, home from college, and my brother Luke is 15 now—taller, with a deep voice, no longer the kid who begged me to read him bedtime stories. We walk to the park, where we used to play tag, and he talks about his band, his friends, his first date. “You’re old,” he teases, but I see the way he still looks to me for advice. Later, we get ice cream, and he steals a bite of mine—just like he did when he was 5. Growing up means changing, but some things stay the same: the teasing, the inside jokes, the way he’s still my little brother, even when he’s not so little anymore.
I’m 19, home from college, and my brother Luke is 15 now—taller, with a deep voice, no longer the kid who begged me to read him bedtime stories. We walk to the park, where we used to play tag, and he talks about his band, his friends, his first date. “You’re old,” he teases, but I see the way he still looks to me for advice. Later, we get ice cream, and he steals a bite of mine—just like he did when he was 5. Growing up means changing, but some things stay the same: the teasing, the inside jokes, the way he’s still my little brother, even when he’s not so little anymore.