The Late Call

“You need to come now. It’s Jake. He—he’s in trouble again.”

My sister’s voice crackled through my cell phone, the words slicing through the quiet hum of my car. I was parked outside my office building, rain tapping out a nervous rhythm on the windshield. It was almost midnight, and the parking lot was empty except for the flickering streetlight and the shadow of my own reflection staring back at me from the rearview mirror. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart hammering in my chest.

“Where is he?” I asked, my voice already rough, the dread settling deep in my gut.

“At Mom’s. She called me crying. I can’t talk to her right now, I can’t—” Her voice broke, and I heard the familiar edge of exhaustion. “Please, Matt. You have to go.”

I didn’t hesitate. I started the engine, the old Chevy groaning in protest as I pulled out onto the rain-slicked road. The city was a blur of neon lights and puddles, and all I could think about was the last time Jake had called me late at night, begging for help. That night ended with broken dishes, police sirens, my father shouting, and my little brother curled up on the kitchen floor, sobbing and high.

The drive to our childhood home felt endless. Every red light, every stop sign, was a reminder of how many times I’d promised myself I was done. That I couldn’t do this anymore. But family isn’t something you can quit, no matter how much you wish you could. Not in our house.

When I pulled up, the porch light was on, illuminating the peeling paint and the sagging swing where Jake and I used to battle for space as kids. I killed the engine, took a shaky breath, and walked up the creaking steps. Mom was waiting at the door, her eyes swollen, her hands shaking.

“He’s in his old room,” she whispered. “He won’t let me in. He just keeps yelling for Dad, but—” She trailed off, looking past me into the darkness.

Dad left three years ago. Jake never believed it was his fault, but everyone else knew better.

I nodded and walked down the narrow hallway, my footsteps muffled by the faded carpet. I could hear the music blaring from Jake’s room—some angry rock song, the kind he used to blast after a fight with Dad. I knocked, softly at first.

“Jake? It’s me. Open up.”

Silence, except for the music. Then, suddenly, the door yanked open. Jake stood there, eyes bloodshot, face gaunt, hoodie hanging off his thin frame. He looked older than his 24 years, like he’d lived a whole other life since the last time I saw him.

“What do you want? Here to judge me again?” His voice was sharp, defensive.

“I’m here because Mom’s scared. Because Amanda called me. Because I still care, even if you don’t want me to.”

He scoffed, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, well, caring doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. The room stank of sweat and stale beer. Posters of bands we used to love peeled from the walls. I searched his face for some trace of the brother I grew up with, the kid who used to sneak out with me to the corner store for candy, the one who laughed so hard he cried over dumb jokes.

“Jake, talk to me. What’s going on?”

He glared at me, jaw clenched. “You wouldn’t understand. You and Amanda always had it together. Good grades, good jobs, perfect lives. Me? I’m the screw-up. The one Dad left.”

I sat down on the edge of his bed, the springs groaning. “You think I haven’t messed up? You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering what I could’ve done different?”

“At least you left. At least you got out.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of every choice I’d made, every time I’d looked away instead of helping, every harsh word I’d thrown at him in anger. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that there was still time, that he wasn’t alone. But the words felt empty.

Jake paced the room, hands shaking. “I called Dad tonight. I left a message. Told him I hated him. Told him I wished he was dead.”

The admission hung in the air like smoke.

“Jake,” I whispered, “you don’t mean that.”

“Maybe I do! Maybe I just want someone to hurt the way I do!”

The anger, the pain, the desperation—they all came pouring out: stories of old fights, missed birthdays, rehab stints, broken promises. I listened, helpless. He cried, fists pressed to his eyes, and I remembered how Mom used to hold us both when we were scared, promising that everything would be okay. I wondered if she’d ever really believed it.

We sat there for hours, the rain pattering against the window, his breathing slowly steadying as the night dragged on. I called Amanda, told her he was safe—for now. Mom eventually crept in, hugging Jake so tightly I thought she’d never let go.

By dawn, Jake was asleep, curled up like the little brother I once knew. I looked at his face, peaceful for the first time in months, and felt both hope and terror. Maybe this was a turning point. Maybe it was just another night in an endless cycle.

As I walked back out to my car, I realized I was shaking. From cold, from fear, from exhaustion—I couldn’t say. I watched the sun rise over our broken little street, wondering when things got so complicated, when love stopped being simple and became a battlefield.

If I could go back, would I have done anything different? Or is this just what it means to be family: to show up, again and again, even when it hurts, even when you want to run away?

What would you do if it were your brother? How many times can you forgive before you finally let go?