I was nine when my brother became gifted, and gifted apparently required two bedrooms, one for sleeping and one for trophies. My things went into plastic bins and my bed became a cot in the garage next to the water heater. Corwin needs the space, they said, every time, for eight years. I left at seventeen and eventually became a building inspector, which is either irony or the most honest career choice I ever made, and I now condemn the exact kind of room my parents once put a child in.
When the windstorm took their roof fourteen years later and my mother asked whether they could stay, I told her the garage was available. Mine has heat, insulation, proper wiring, smoke detection, two exits and a bathroom. Forty-five days, no rent, written rules, and I made them both sign because nobody had ever asked me to agree to anything.
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