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Dear Shakir (My Brother) THE INHERITANCE OF ASHES Do you ever wonder why the air in this house feels like a chokehold? Do you ever look at Papa and Dadi (Grandmother) and wonder what they had to kill to make sure you were the one standing here? I’m going to tell you the truth that they are too cowardly to say: You are a replacement. You aren't just a son; you are a "fix." You are the "Heir" that was ordered like a product because a baby girl—our sister—wasn't "good enough" for Dadi (Grandmother)’s ego. Papa didn't stay because he loved us. He stayed because he finally "produced" you. He threw away a wife and a daughter, a real, living, breathing baby because Dadi (Grandmother) told him to. He listened to her like a dog. He chose her approval over his own flesh and blood. And then he used our mom to "reset" his life, as if people are just toys you can throw in the trash when they're the wrong gender. That is your inheritance. You are standing on the ruins of a family that was demolished just so you could have a title. Every "blessing" you get in this house is a slap in the face to the sister who was deleted from the record. They use Mama. They use me. And they use you to pretend they aren't monsters. They look at you and see a "victory," but I look at you and I see the cost. I see the debt. I see the karma that they think they escaped. You think you’re the first child? You’re not. You’re the one they kept. You’re the one who was "worth it" in their twisted, hollow heads. I am sick of the "Golden Son" act. I am sick of living in a house where girls are garbage and sons are trophies. They built this world for you, but it’s built on a graveyard. And I’m done being the only one who smells the rot. from Mushk (Your sister)