He ripped apart my hard work. Again. Three months of art class torn to shreds. Hard work reduced to nothing but small slivers of canvas lying lifeless on the hardwood floor. And then I feel it. It’s slowly rising up in my throat. I make every attempt to stop it, but I can’t. It starts flowing out, the hurricane of insults. Every word I know. Even Shakespearean insults are hurled out towards a two year old. He looks at me, confusion clouding his face, and starts giggling a little. A mix of frustration and anger fills my head, powering my every action. I feel the blood rushing to my face. Who am I to be humiliated by this baby? I want to slap him and I almost do. He’s frightened by my sudden motion and starts bawling. Humungous tears run down his chubby little cheeks and I’m reminded he’s still a kid. But the damage is done. I wrap him in my arms and try to weld our broken trust. I’m sorry, little brother, I’m sorry.