"Brianna, you're a college student. What do you think should be done about this?"

Mom gently pulled my brother up from the floor, wrapping her arms around his bulky body to soothe him.

He was just a high school freshman, 15 years old, not even 1.68 meters tall, but already tipping the scales at 77 kilograms. Huddled there, he looked like a mound of squished meatloaf.

I bit back the bitterness rising in my throat and put on a show of concern.

"Mom, do you think this could be a case of depression? That's serious stuff. Remember, last year a kid at our school with depression... Well, it didn't end well. We should get him to a doctor, pronto. School's not as important as staying alive, right?"

My brother, realizing I had caught on to his act, dropped the waterworks and nodded like his life depended on it. "Yeah, Mom, I'm really freaked out. I can't seem to get a grip on myself. Can we go see a doctor, please?"

Little did they know, they both thought a couple of quizzes could nail down depression.

However, I had been down that road for real and knew the drill with all the tests he could not just bluff his way through.

If we hit up a legit hospital, my brother's gig would be up in a heartbeat.

He wanted to play sick, did he? Fine, I would play along.

"Mom, I don't think we should drag him to some fancy hospital. They'll charge an arm and a leg for a sniffle, running all sorts of tests. Remember my cough? They did blood work and a CT scan, and it cost a fortune."

I had that annoying allergic asthma, and dusting around the house did not help. The last time I had an allergy attack so bad that I could barely breathe, and I had to beg Mom to take me to the hospital.

They ruled out flu and pneumonia, but then they wanted to test for asthma.

Mom, however, thought the doctors were just after our cash, running tests but coming up empty. She lost it at the hospital, accused them of being thieves, and even said I was faking it.

Ever since, I have had to tough it out whenever I got sick, only getting dragged to some tiny clinic for a shot when I was at my worst.

"Exactly, your sister has a point. Let's check out that clinic, Anthony's. She always goes there, and a single shot sorts her out."

I could not help but snicker to myself. That clinic's shots worked fast because they did not skimp on the meds.

I was curious to see how Mom would handle it when her precious baby boy was the one under the weather.

My younger brother must have been plotting his little act for a while because he barely touched his bread at dinner, claiming he was not hungry. Mom was so freaked out she did not even finish her food before dragging him off to the clinic.

If he had not kept eyeing the meatloaf like it was the last one on earth, maybe I would have bought his act.

Just as I figured, the doctor at the clinic handed him a quiz to check how he was feeling. Of course, my brother started checking off all the worst answers.

[Lost my appetite lately.]

[Don't care about anything anymore.]

If it had not been for my soul having been able to see in my previous life—seeing him munching on chips and gaming under his blanket at night until his phone practically caught fire—I might have fallen for it.

"This looks bad," said the doctor, scribbling out a prescription. "Take these meds daily and come back in a month for a check-up."

Brother left the clinic grinning like he had won the lottery, while Mom looked like she was about to cry, clutching a diagnosis for major depression and a bunch of mystery meds.

"Zane, go chill in your room. I'll grab your favorite chicken wings later. Try to eat a bit, okay?" Mom told him.

His room soon echoed with snores that could wake the dead.

"Brianna, your brother is sick, so you're on dinner duty from now on. I'm getting him a school break tomorrow. You'll take care of him when you're not in class, got it?" declared Mom.

I kept my face blank, but inside, I was completely detached.

When it was time to pick colleges, I had my sights set on some outstanding out-of-state schools. However, Mom had other plans and kept me local.

She used to teach at the elementary school back home but quit to move near my college, all so my brother could go to a fancy high school.

They made me come home every weekend to clean and cook because he was boarding there.

Then, with him on a break, she had me coming back every day to cook.

On the weekends, my roommate was always buzzing with excitement, either hitting the town for some fun or catching extra sleep in our dorm. Whenever they were itching for a shopping spree, a little charm went a long way with their parents.

Me? I was juggling part-time gigs to scrape together cash for tuition and living expenses, and then I was back home playing nanny to my kid brother.

People who did not know any better thought I was the child my parents had been hoping for.

In reality, I know better—I was born Brian.

Mom, even the teacher, worried about the stigma of playing favorites with her kids, did not want to be caught giving boys the edge. So, she dubbed me Brianna.

Even before my younger brother was born, she always called me Brian. After Zane was born, she switched back to calling me by my full name.

Zane, with a name like Gene, a nod to our family's legacy.

The memory of today's prescription bill and the wince on Mom's face was still fresh in my mind.

Maybe, just maybe, my so-called 'adorable little brother' actually did me a solid at that time and helped me cut ties with that bloodsucking household for good.