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One morning my brother sat in our family’s kitchen, happily hoisting a teetering forkful of pineapple upside down cake into his mouth.
He’d already eaten half the cake I’d made for a co-worker’s birthday. When I started screaming at him, he just stared at me a while. Then, he walked out of the house, carrying the cake, and smeared the remainder onto my windshield.
“Have fun driving to work,” he said.
I hated him.
He was 16, I was 18 and we’d been taking turns being cruel to each other for years.
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