D208.My brother opened twelve Christmas presents while I sat beside the tree holding one small box. Inside mine was a pair of gray socks.

Brooke didn't move for ten full seconds. Her eyes darted from Dad's unyielding expression to Grandma June, and finally to Wyatt, who was still curled into a ball on the carpet.

"You're kicking me out?" she whispered, her voice trembling with an explosive mixture of disbelief and venom. "On Christmas Day? Over this?"

"I am asking you to give my family space before this gets worse," Dad said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You lied to me for three weeks. You lied to my mother. You took money designated for Lucy and used it to spoil Wyatt while leaving her with nothing. You looked me in the eye this morning and told me the warehouse in Illinois had delayed the shipment."

"I was going to replace it in January!" Brooke yelled, her composure cracking completely. "I was waiting for my bonus check from the clinic!"

"Your bonus came on the tenth, Brooke," Dad said flatly. "I saw the direct deposit stub on the kitchen island last week. You spent twelve hundred dollars on your weekend trip to Chicago with your sister."

Brooke’s face drained of color. She looked around the living room as if searching for an escape hatch, but there were no allies left in the room.

"Wyatt," Brooke snapped, her voice harsh and commanding. "Get your shoes on. We’re leaving."

Wyatt didn't move. He sat there among the piles of wrapping paper, his fingers tangled in the strings of his hoodie.

"Wyatt, I said get up!"

"No," Wyatt mumbled.

The single word fell like an anvil. Brooke actually took a step back, her eyes widening. In all the time I had lived with them, I had never once heard Wyatt defy his mother. Brooke micromanaged everything—his grades, his friends, his hockey schedule, his hair. Wyatt always followed orders.

"What did you just say to me?" Brooke demanded.

Wyatt looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks blotched with red. He looked at the mountain of gifts surrounding him—the remote-control car, the sneakers, the twelve boxes that had made him the center of the universe less than an hour ago.

"I said no," Wyatt repeated, his voice clearer this time. "I'm not going to Aunt Kelly's. Aunt Kelly is just going to talk trash about Lucy and Dad all afternoon, and you're going to complain, and I don't want to hear it."

"Wyatt Mercer, you get your things right now—"

"Leave him alone, Brooke," Dad interrupted, stepping forward. "If Wyatt wants to stay here with his sister, he stays here. You go."

Brooke let out a guttural sound of frustration, spun around, and stormed down the hallway toward the master bedroom. Seconds later, the sound of bureau drawers slamming open and shut rattled the drywall.

The living room fell into an uneasy, breathless quiet.

I couldn't stand the sight of the room anymore. The fake crackling fire on the TV, the smell of cinnamon rolls burning faintly in the kitchen oven, the mountain of wrapping paper that had been meant for everyone but had only belonged to one person—it felt toxic.

I picked up the small red box with my gray socks, pulled my knees to my chest for a second, and then stood up.

"Lucy," Dad began, reaching a hand out toward me. His face was crumpled with misery. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I swear to God I didn't know—"

"I'm going to my room," I said quietly, not looking him in the eyes. I couldn't. If I looked at him, I knew I would either scream or burst into tears, and I refused to do either while Brooke was still in the house.

I walked down the narrow carpeted hallway to the small back bedroom that used to be an office before Brooke moved in. It was half the size of Wyatt’s room, facing the north fence where the winter sun never quite reached. I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, and finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding since seven in the morning.

I set the red box on my desk. Beside it sat my sketchbooks—five spiral-bound pads filled with graphite drawings, charcoal studies, and watercolor attempts on cheap printer paper that always buckled under the moisture. On the wall was a pinboard with my drawing ideas for the Ohio Junior Arts Festival. The deadline to submit digital files was January fifteenth. Without a tablet and a stylus, I was disqualified before I even began.

A soft knock sounded against the wood behind my back.

I stiffened. "Go away, Brooke."

"It's not Mom," a voice said. "It's me. Wyatt."

I hesitated, then stepped back and pulled the door open an inch.

Wyatt stood in the hallway. In his hands, he held the large, unopened factory box of the gaming console. His posture was slumped, his shoulders hunched inward.

"Can I come in for a second?" he asked.

I opened the door wider and retreated to the edge of my unmade twin bed.

Wyatt walked into the room, his eyes scanning the sketches pinned to my walls. He had lived in the room across the hall for three years, but he rarely came in here. Brooke had a subtle way of keeping our territories strictly divided.

Without saying a word, Wyatt walked over to my desk, picked up the box containing my gray socks, and slid it aside. Then he placed the heavy, plastic-wrapped console directly in the center of the desk.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"It's yours," Wyatt said simply.

I stared at him. "Wyatt, don't be stupid. That's your console. You’ve been talking about it since September."

"I don't want it," he said. His voice was thick, like he was trying to swallow a stone. "She bought it with Grandma’s money. Grandma gave that money for you. That means this is yours. You can return it to Best Buy, or sell it on Facebook, or whatever. Take the money and buy your drawing thing."

"Brooke will kill you," I said.

Wyatt let out a dry, humorless snort that sounded surprisingly adult for a twelve-year-old. "She's already mad at me. Doesn't matter."

He walked over to the desk, his gaze catching on a piece of paper sticking out from beneath a pile of art magazines. He frowned, reaching out to touch the corner of a cream-colored envelope that was partially buried under an old folder.

"Wait," Wyatt said, pulling the envelope free. "Where did you get this?"

I looked over. The envelope had my name on it, printed from a computer, with an official gold seal in the upper left corner: *The Columbus Youth Guild for the Arts.*

"What is that?" I asked, frowning. "I've never seen that before."

"It was in Mom's desk drawer," Wyatt said slowly, his brows pulling together. "Last week, I was looking for a roll of Scotch tape to wrap her present. I saw this in the bottom drawer under her tax files. It was already opened. I thought it was junk mail, so I didn't pay attention. Why is it in your room?"

"It wasn't in my room," I said, my heart suddenly doing a violent leap into my throat. "I’ve never seen that in my life."

Wyatt turned the envelope over. Inside was a single folded sheet of heavy ivory paper. He unfolded it, his eyes darting across the text. His expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then to something cold and dark.

"Lucy," he said, holding the paper toward me with a shaking hand. "Look at this."

I took the letter. The date at the top was November twelfth.

*Dear Miss Vaughn,*

*We are pleased to inform you that your portfolio submission, 'Winter over the Scioto,' has been selected for the 2027 Young Artists Fellowship. This award includes full tuition for our ten-week digital illustration masterclass beginning January 10th, provided the candidate has access to standard digital drawing equipment.*

*To secure your seat, please confirm registration by December 20th.*

*A registration fee waiver of $150 has been applied to your account through our donor fund.*

I stared at the paper. The words blurred together.

November twelfth. Brooke handled all the mail. She picked it up from the box at the end of the driveway every afternoon before Dad got home from the architecture firm.

She had hidden it. She had tucked it away in her desk drawer, letting the December twentieth confirmation deadline pass in silence, all so Dad wouldn't find out, so nobody would ask why Lucy needed a drawing tablet for a fellowship she had earned all on her own.

"She knew," I whispered, the paper trembling in my fingers. "She knew about the fellowship for six weeks."

Wyatt didn't say a word. He just stood there in the center of my small room, looking at the letter, looking at the heavy console on my desk, and looking at me.