Hidden Burdens

I haven’t slept properly in weeks.

Three in the morning finds me staring at my phone, scrolling through unanswered texts to Eloise. The last one I sent was two days ago.

Me: We have to get this done and that won’t happen if you don’t talk to me. The read receipt shows she saw it. But no response.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand harder than I mean to. It skitters across the surface and falls to the floor with a crack that makes me wince. I don’t pick it up. Instead, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, replaying the scene in the lawyer’s office for the thousandth time.

Dad made Eloise executrix. Not us. Her.

I can still see her face when I called her controlling. Selfish. The words had come out before I could stop them, fueled by weeks of watching Dad fade and the sudden, crushing realization that even in death, he was choosing her over me.

She’d just sat there, stone-faced, while the lawyer cleared his throat uncomfortably.

I'd left before she could say anything.

That was a month ago.

Guilt sits heavy in my chest, but underneath it is something worse—hurt that feels like it’s been there longer than the fight, longer than Dad's death, maybe longer than I’ve been willing to admit.

I remember being twelve, both of us knowing without asking that the other one needed space. We had a language that didn't require words—a look across the dinner table and we'd both disappear to our rooms, or we'd find each other in the garage without planning it. We were a unit. We didn't keep things from each other.

Now she won't even answer my calls.

The next morning, I make coffee I don't drink and toast I don't eat. I pull up Eloise's contact and stare at her name. My thumb hovers over the call button. I've called her seventeen times in the past month. She's answered zero.

I lock the phone and shove it in my pocket.

The problem is the estate. That's what I keep telling myself. But if Dad trusted both of us equally, why didn't he tell me? Why did he only tell her?

Owen shows up at my door around noon with takeout I didn't ask for.

“You look like shit,” he says, pushing past me into the house.

“Thanks.”

“When's the last time you shaved?” He sets the food on the kitchen counter and turns to look at me with that expression he gets when he's about to say something I don't want to hear.

“I don't know. A few days?” I run my hand through my hair, which probably looks as bad as the rest of me. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.” He pulls containers out of the bag. “Have you talked to Elle?”

“She won't talk to me.”

“Have you tried apologizing?”

“I texted her.”

Owen gives me a look that says texting doesn't count without him having to say it out loud. “She's hurting too, you know.”

“I know that.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “I know she's hurting. But she's also shutting me out. Dad did. Everyone keeps shutting me out, and I'm supposed to just—what? Be okay with it?”

“Is that what this is about?” Owen leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Being shut out?”

“Dad made her executrix, Owen. He trusted her with everything and didn't trust me with anything.”

“Or,” Owen says carefully, “he had to choose someone and knew you two would work it out together.”

“Then why won't she talk to me?”

“Because you called her selfish and controlling in front of your father’s lawyer.”

I flinch. “I know. I fucked up. But it's been a month, and she won't even—” I stop, swallow hard. “If Dad trusted both of us equally, why didn't he tell me what he was planning? Why did he only tell her?”

Owen is quiet for a long moment. Then he asks, “Are you angry about the estate or something else?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“Are you angry about the will? Or are you angry about something deeper?”

I don't have an answer. The silence stretches between us until Owen sighs and pushes off the counter.

“Just think about it,” he says. "And eat something. You look like you haven't slept in weeks.”

“I haven't.”

He squeezes my shoulder on his way out. “Talk to her, Tate. Really talk to her.”

After he leaves, I stand in the kitchen staring at the takeout containers. Owen's question loops in my head.

Are you angry about the estate or something else?

I don't know.

And that frustrates me more than anything.

---

Two days later, I'm in the garage going through boxes of old paperwork. I tell myself I'm looking for estate documents—something, anything that might explain Dad's decisions. But really, I think I'm just looking for answers.

The boxes are dusty and disorganized, full of tax returns and medical bills and receipts from years ago. I'm about to give up when I find a manila folder shoved in the bottom of a box labeled 2009.

The year Mom died.

I pull out the folder and open it.

Hospital bills. Dozens of them. From Mom's accident, from the weeks she spent in the ICU before she died. The numbers are staggering—hundreds of thousands of dollars, most of it marked PAST DUE in angry red stamps.

Underneath the hospital bills are collection notices. Debt letters. Credit card statements in Mom's name showing balances I can't even process.

And at the very bottom, pay stubs from a second job. Dad's name, a company I don't recognize, hours listed as overnight shift.

The dates on everything are from when I was fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

I sit back on my heels, the folder trembling in my hands.

How did I not know about this?

I lived through those years. I was there. I remember Eloise missing my football game junior year, and I'd been so angry at her for saying she had “stuff to do.” I never asked what stuff. Never thought to ask. I remember Dad at breakfast, eyes red-rimmed, coffee going cold in front of him. I remember Eloise on the phone in her room, door closed, voice low, talking about bills and payments—things I didn't understand and didn't try to.

And then I remember her sitting beside me while I cried. Her hand in mine. Her voice telling me it was okay to cry.

While I was feeling everything, she was carrying everything.

They decided I couldn't handle the truth. And they were right—I couldn't have, back then. The grief was already drowning me. But they never gave me the chance to grow into someone who could. They kept me frozen at fourteen—the kid who cried himself to sleep, who shut down, who needed protecting.

---

I show up at Eloise's office.

I haven't slept. I haven't shaved. I've been running my hands through my hair so much it probably looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

I don't care. I need to talk to her. I need answers.

The receptionist looks startled when I walk in, but she directs me to Eloise's office. I knock once and push the door open without waiting for an answer.

She looks up from her computer, and for a second, I see surprise flash across her face. Then it's gone, replaced by that careful, neutral expression she wears when she’s angry with me.

“I know you're working,” I say, and even I can hear how tired I sound. “But you Haven’t been answering me. Can we please talk?”

She stares at me for a long moment. I shift from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how desperate I must look.

"I'm working, Tate, as you just pointed out,” she says finally. "I didn't answer because I'm busy. Now isn't the time to talk."

"Please." The word comes out raw. "I just—please."

But I can see it in her eyes. She's not ready. And maybe I don't have the right to ask her to be.

The door opens behind me, and Owen steps in. "What's going on?" He looks between us, then at me. "Tate, what are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to my sister."

"During work hours? Tate, the conversation you two need to have isn't workplace appropriate."

He's right. I know that. But desperation makes you do stupid things.

"I guess I'm just desperate," I say quietly.

Eloise stands up, arms crossed over her chest. "Please go, Tate. I'm not ready to talk, and just coming here uninvited isn't making this better."

I turn to leave, defeated, but her voice stops me.

"When was the last time you slept well?"

I look back at her. "I can't remember, Elle. But it's been a while."

Something flickers in her expression—concern, maybe, or guilt. "Please get some sleep, Tate."

I just nod and leave.

---

I do sleep, actually. Six hours straight—the first real sleep I've had in weeks. When I wake up, my phone is ringing.

Owen.

I let it go to voicemail.

Owen: She'll come around.

Me: I know.

And I do.

Because for the first time, I think there's something I haven't been seeing.

---

The text comes two days later, while I'm sitting on the couch staring at nothing.

Eloise: If it's okay, I could stop by now so we can talk.

I read it three times to make sure it's real.

Me: Yes, please.

I spend the next twenty minutes pacing, trying to figure out what to say. How to apologize. How to explain that I found the papers, that I know now, that I understand—

The doorbell rings.

I open it before she can knock.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi.”

We stand there, on opposite sides of the threshold, just looking at each other.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out.

I blink. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"Hold on." I shake my head, trying to catch up. "I'm not following you. What should you have told me?”

She takes a deep breath. “Can I come in?”

“Yes. God, yes, of course.” I step aside, and she walks past me into the living room. We sit on the couch, and I wait while she gathers her thoughts.

“When Mom died, her car accident left Dad with a bunch of hospital bills and debt that accumulated over the years,” she says finally. “She hid her amount of debt from him. I don’t know why or what happened, but Dad had to get a second job to pay the bills. The reason he told me any of this was that he didn't want to burden you because of everything you were already going through. He tried to spare the burden and responsibilities that I took on.”

I hold up my hand, asking her to stop. My mind is racing, trying to process what she's saying even though I already know. I found the papers but hearing it from her makes it real in a way the documents didn’t.

“So when Dad told us about his will, he said later that he didn't want to burden you with the same thing,” she continues. “He didn’t want you to struggle with the debt that he’d leave behind. He said to use his money to pay whatever I could, then split what was left. That’s why he left everything to me. He didn’t want us to fight over what to do.”

“He put all that responsibility on you at fourteen and again almost two decades later,” I say quietly.

“I don’t see it that way,” she says. “I helped him with Mom’s debt, and he knew I wouldn’t get overwhelmed with his. I don’t mind the responsibility, but I can’t take you being mad at me.”

“You could have told me this. I would have helped. I don't want to be left in the dark. You're all I have left.” I take a deep breath. “You’re my twin. We share everything. We share our secrets. Our hurt. Our joy. Our lives. We do not keep things from each other." I pause. "We were supposed to know each other without speaking. We were supposed to keep knowing. I'm sorry I stopped trying.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. I should not have called you selfish and controlling. You are never selfish. You are the most selfless person I know.”

“What about controlling?” she asks, and there's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my chest loosen.

"Oh, you're totally a control freak, but in the best way." I smile despite everything I'm feeling. "But let me in from now on. Don't shut me out again."

I take her hand. It's a small gesture, but it opens something in both of us.

Then I pull her into a hug, holding on tight.

She wraps her arms around me and squeezes hard. I return the squeeze, making her laugh—a sound I've missed more than I realized.

We stay like that for a long moment. Then I feel her shoulders shake.

"Elle?" I pull back just enough to see her face.

She's crying. Not the quiet, controlled tears I've seen before—real crying, the kind that comes from somewhere deep.

"I'm so tired, Tate." Her voice breaks. "I've been so tired for so long, and I didn't know how to tell you. Every time I tried, I thought—what if it makes things worse? What if you feel guilty? What if it hurts you more than it helps?"

"Elle—"

"After a while I just got used to carrying it," she says. "And then I didn't know how to stop. I didn't know how to ask for help because asking felt like admitting I couldn't handle it. And if I couldn't handle it, then what was the point of any of it?"

I pull her back into the hug, holding her while she cries. My throat is tight.

"I needed you too," she whispers against my shoulder. "All those years. I needed my brother. But I didn't know how to be the one who needed something when everyone was counting on me to be strong."

I pause, and then I meet her eyes.

"I'm here now," I say. "I'm here."

She nods against me, and we stay like that until her breathing evens out.

"Any more secrets you'd like to share?" I ask finally, trying to lighten the moment.

She laughs, watery but real. "No. I'm all secreted out."

"You look better," she says after a moment, pulling back to look at me.

I laugh. "Yeah, I took a nap after I left your office."

"Good. I've missed you."

"Me too."

---

Later, after Eloise leaves, I sit in the quiet house and think about what she said.

I needed you too.

All this time, I thought the betrayal was that they didn't trust me. That they looked at me and decided I was too fragile, too broken, too much of a child to handle the truth.

But that's not the whole story.

Maybe neither of us got to be fourteen.

I got frozen there—the kid who cried himself to sleep, who shut down, who needed protecting. They saw me break and decided that's who I'd always be.

But Eloise became the strong one, the responsible one, the one who could handle anything. And once she was that person, no one thought to ask if maybe she needed to break too.

Dad didn't choose her because he loved her more.

He chose her because grief had already made the choice for him. For both of us.

I forgive them. I do. I forgive Dad, even though he's not here to know it. I forgive Eloise for carrying secrets that were too heavy for one person.

But forgiveness doesn't erase what we lost.

We both lost our mother that day. But we also lost that language we shared—the one that didn't need words. We lost the chance to grieve together, to find each other in the wreckage, to stay a unit when everything was falling apart.

The real betrayal wasn't the will or the secrets or the decisions made without me.

It was that grief decided who we'd be, and no one thought to ask if we wanted something different.

Maybe it's not too late to choose for ourselves now.