Who really suffered the most in this story? #shorts

Who really suffered the most in this story?

It all started with my dad’s blind devotion to my older brother, Ryan.
Ryan was the golden child growing up—charming, athletic, funny. But behind the charm was a storm: drugs. By the time he was 17, he was already in and out of trouble. My dad refused to see it.
“Boys will be boys,” he’d say.
But the truth? Ryan’s addiction was eating us alive.
I remember the first time he stole from me—my laptop, gone overnight. He swore he was just “borrowing it.” A week later, Dad bought me a new one, saying, “Ryan’s going through a hard time. Be patient with him.”
That “hard time” lasted over a decade.
Ryan stole from everyone—mom’s jewelry, my sister’s savings jar, even the rent money once. Each time, Dad bailed him out. Paid the debts, covered the lies, told the neighbors Ryan was “just stressed.”
Mom cried herself to sleep. My sister stopped coming home for holidays. And me? I grew bitter.
But the worst came when Ryan, high out of his mind, drove Dad’s truck. My cousin Emily was in the passenger seat. She didn’t make it home.
Her funeral shattered us. My uncle screamed at my dad in front of everyone. “This is on YOU! You kept covering for him!” And deep down, I knew he was right.
Even then, Dad defended Ryan. “He didn’t mean it. He’s sick, he needs help.”
But by then, the family was fractured. No one visited. No one trusted.
Fast forward three years. The phone rang late at night. It was the hospital. Ryan had overdosed.
I expected grief to hit me like a tidal wave. But all I felt was… emptiness.
When the funeral day came, I looked around the church. Empty pews. No cousins. No uncles. Not even my sister.
Just me. And my dad, sitting in the front row, clutching Ryan’s photo like it was a lifeline.
The priest cleared his throat awkwardly, waiting for mourners that never came. Outside, life went on—cars driving by, people laughing, completely unaware that inside, a family had died long before Ryan did.
Dad whispered through tears, “He was still my son.”
And for the first time, I didn’t argue. I just put a hand on his shoulder. Because I realized—Ryan’s addiction hadn’t just killed him. It had buried our entire family long before this day.

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