The Broken Son

When they found my brother unconscious, clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills, my dad didn’t cry. 

He didn’t fall to his knees. He didn’t ask why. 

He yelled. 
And then, he hit him. 

While I held my brother’s cold hand and screamed for an ambulance, my dad shouted, “You embarrassed us! You shameful little brat!” 

That’s when I found out the truth. 

My brother wasn’t depressed because he was weak. 

He was broken because no one ever asked what he wanted. 

But this time, he didn’t want to survive. 

Claire’s POV – Two Months Earlier 

In our house, ambition was oxygen, and the only acceptable dream was becoming a doctor. 

I’m Claire. Seventeen. AP student. Varsity debate. Ivy League dreams (not mine, but still). I follow the rules because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. 

My older brother, Aiden, was eighteen, and he stopped dreaming years ago. 

He never told our parents he wanted to be a filmmaker. He knew better. He filmed scripts on his old iPhone, wrote screenplays in math class, and edited short films when everyone thought he was sleeping. 

But our parents only saw one future: stethoscope, lab coat, respect. 

They tracked his study hours, checked his screen time, and printed college rankings on our fridge. 

I heard Mom once say, “He’s our investment. He can’t mess it up.” 

She didn’t notice he hadn’t smiled in weeks. 

Aiden studied 15 hours a day, every day. Pre-med, SAT prep, AP Bio, shadowing a doctor on Saturdays. He wasn’t living, he was performing. 

Every second was scheduled. 

He barely ate. Slept for 3 hours, maybe 4. Stopped going out with friends. Deleted social media. 

He didn’t even talk to me anymore. Just… existed. 

Once, I caught him sitting alone in the garage, headphones in, crying. I didn’t know what to do. I sat beside him and held his hand. 

He whispered, “I don’t want this. I just don’t know how to leave.” 

That night, I googled: “how to tell your parents you don’t want to be a doctor.” 

Nothing helped. 

Because how do you tell people who raised you for a path you never chose… that it was never yours to begin with? 

A week before the SATs, everything cracked. 

Aiden stopped speaking. Literally. He went silent. Mom thought he was being dramatic. Dad called it “testing boundaries.” 

But I knew better. 

Then I found it. 

A note, folded in his desk drawer. 

“I tried to be your perfect son. I really did. 

But I can’t breathe in this dream anymore. 

I’m sorry.” 

I ran to his room. 

He was passed out on the bed. The bottle was still in his hand. Empty. 

I screamed. 

We called 911. 

And while we waited, our dad, our dad—slapped him across the face and yelled, “How dare you?! After everything we gave you?” 

The EMTs pulled him away. 

At the hospital, Aiden barely made it. 

But he did. 

And when he woke up, he said something I didn’t expect. 

“I wasn’t trying to die,” he whispered, his voice dry from charcoal treatment. 

“What?” I blinked. 

“I didn’t take enough to kill me. Just enough to scare them. I needed to make them feel something. Fear. Shame. Anything but control.” 

It hit me like a punch to the chest. 

“You faked it?” 

He nodded. “Kind of. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t live another day being someone I’m not.” 

I wanted to be mad. I wanted to yell at him for risking everything. 

But I also… understood. 

He wasn’t trying to escape life. 

He was trying to escape their version of it. 

That night, our dad came in again. Aiden was barely conscious. 

And even then, our father growled, “You’re sitting for the SAT next week. No more nonsense.” 

Aiden didn’t answer. 

He just closed his eyes and turned away. 

One week later, he disappeared. 

No texts. No note. Nothing. 

Just gone. 

But I knew where he was. 

He’d been saving money secretly. Working part-time online. Using a fake name. Making short films under a pseudonym. Submitting to indie festivals. 

And he ran. 

He took a bus to New York. Slept on a friend’s floor. Auditioned for a small film conservatory, and got in. 

And for the first time since middle school, he smiled in his selfies. 

He didn’t block me. 

Only our parents. 

Three months later, it happened. 

A video blew up on Instagram Reels. TikTok. Everywhere. 

A short film. 

About a boy suffocating under pressure. Who fakes his suicide to teach his parents a lesson. 

Title: Not His Dream. 

Written and directed by: A. R. Collen (an alias, but I knew). 

The internet lost it. 

“This broke me.” 
“I’m sobbing.” 
“Every brown parent needs to see this.” 
“Why are we treating kids like trophies?” 

Dad saw it on Facebook. 

He turned gray. 

Mom cried and asked, “Do you think this is about us?” 

I didn’t answer. 

Instead, I emailed them a scanned copy of Aiden’s acceptance letter. His director’s award from a small NYC film fest. His scholarship confirmation. 

“This is what he’s doing now,” I wrote. 

No one replied. 

But the silence said enough. 

Six months later, Aiden came home. 

He looked… different. Not just older. Lighter. 

He asked to meet in the living room. Just him, me, and our parents. 

He stood straight. Calm. 

“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” he said. 

Our dad clenched his jaw. 

Aiden kept going. “I’m not angry anymore. I just want to be clear.” 

He pulled something from his pocket, a flash drive. 

“My new short film is screening at a youth mental health summit in D.C. The Department of Education wants to use it in classrooms. I thought you should see it.” 

He handed it to Dad. 

“I’m doing what I love. I hope you can accept it. But if not… I’ll still keep going.” 

He walked out. 

I followed him. Hugged him tight. 

“You did it,” I whispered. “You actually did it.” 

His voice cracked. “Yeah. I think I finally got to tell the story I needed.” 

He stayed for two days. 

They talked. Not a lot. But it wasn’t angry this time. It was… quiet. Hesitant. 

Healing, maybe. 

Aiden never tried to win them over again. 

He didn’t need to. 

Because the world saw him for who he really was— 
A storyteller who refused to be silenced. 

And I? 

I stopped saying yes to dreams that weren’t mine, too. 

Because watching someone you love almost die for a future they never wanted? 

That’ll change you. 

Forever. 

Comment Question: 

Have you ever felt trapped by someone else’s expectations? What dream would you chase if fear wasn’t in the way?