"Someone has to teach him," he yelled at me. What was even worse was my mother's reaction when she found out.

"If your brother won't learn with words, he'll learn with a sl:ap," Austin said, standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hand still raised.

I was seventeen years old, and until that Saturday, I still believed a home could be held together with hard work, patience, and silence. My name is Nellie. I live in Cincinnati with my mother, Cynthia, and my eight-year-old little brother, Graham. My mom works as a nurse at a public hospital. She leaves before sunrise and almost always comes home exhausted, smelling of hand sanitizer and fatigue. That's why, after finishing high school early, I decided to take a gap year before starting college. I wanted to work, save money, and help her.

I paid for the internet, the phone bill, and part of the groceries. I also cooked, cleaned the living room and bathroom, and looked after Graham whenever my mom worked extra shifts. I never complained. Graham is a sensitive, intelligent little boy with mild au:tism and ADHD. Sometimes he laughs loudly. Sometimes he asks the same question five times in a row. But he has never been a bad kid. He just needs patience.

Everything started to change when my mom let Austin move into the house.

At first she said he would stay "just a few days" because he was going through a rough patch. Those few days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into six months. Austin drove for a rideshare app three or four hours whenever he felt like it, but most of the time he lounged on the couch watching TV, leaving dirty dishes everywhere, drinking glasses in the bathroom, and the refrigerator door hanging open. He ate all the food I bought for the week and then shrugged.

"It's food, not gold. If it runs out, buy more."

My mom pretended not to hear him. Or maybe she was just too tired to argue.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the way he looked at Graham, as if my brother's very existence annoyed him.

"That kid's too old to keep acting weird," he'd say whenever Graham covered his ears because the blender was too loud.

"Don't talk to him like that," I'd answer.

"You're not his mother."

"But I'm the one who takes care of him."

My mom always stepped in too late, her voice weak.

"Austin, just leave him alone."

And he would laugh, as if we were all living in his house.

That Saturday, Graham had earned a perfect score on his math test. To celebrate, I promised we'd make slime, something he'd been asking for for weeks. We spread newspaper over the table and mixed glue, blue food coloring, and detergent. Graham was so happy. He laughed with that pure, innocent laugh that reminded me there was still something good left in our home.

Then a little slime dripped onto his T-shirt.

"It's okay, champ," I told him. "I'll grab a rag, and we'll throw it in the wash."

I went to the bathroom.

I was gone for less than a minute.

Then I heard a loud s:mack.

A second later came Graham's scream.

It wasn't a tantrum.

It wasn't surprise.

It was the scream of a child in pain.

I ran back into the kitchen and found Austin leaning over my brother, pointing a finger in his face.

"You fil:thy b:rat! Maybe now you'll learn not to make a mess like an animal!"

Graham's cheek was bright red. His eyes were filled with tears, but he couldn't even cry properly. He had frozen in place.

It felt as if the floor disappeared beneath me.

"You hi:t him?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

Austin turned toward me with a crooked smile.

"Someone has to teach him."

I didn't think.

I wrapped my arms around Graham, lifted him out of the chair, and carried him into my bedroom. He was shaking against my chest, whispering over and over,

"It was an accident, Nellie... it was an accident..."

Austin followed us down the hallway, shouting that I was an insolent brat and that no one disrespected him in his own house.

His house. Something inside me snapped.

I pulled the pepper spray from my purse, something I'd carried ever since I started coming home late from work, and pointed it straight at him.

"Take one more step, and I swear you'll never touch my brother again."

Austin laughed.

"You think you're going to threaten me?"

He stepped forward. I sprayed the pepper spray directly into his face.

Austin started coughing, cursing, and screaming as if he had suddenly become the victim. I sh0ved him toward the front door, grabbed the spare key, and locked him outside. Then I gathered his clothes, his sneakers, his chargers, everything I could find that belonged to him, and threw it all out the backyard window.