The hate between us

Chapter 1: When the War Began

I remember the day we met like it was yesterday. We were both four years old, two toddlers with no idea that our lives were about to change forever. I stood there, clutching my father's leg, watching a boy with scruffy hair and a sour expression march into my house—*our* house now. His mother trailed behind, smiling warmly at me, but he glared at me like I had taken something precious from him. In truth, I had.

His mother.

And that's how it started. No words. No introductions. Just the silent, mutual understanding that we hated each other.

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**That First Day**

It took no time for the fighting to begin.

While the adults were busy unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and discussing the logistics of merging two families, I felt a sharp tug on my favorite doll's arm. There he was, standing in front of me, pulling with all his strength, eyes locked on mine with a challenge. I pulled back, harder, my teeth clenched in frustration. I didn't know his name, and I didn't care. He wasn't going to win.

In the end, the doll's arm came clean off. He ran off laughing, and I screamed. That was the first time I realized what it meant to hate someone.

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As we grew older, the fighting didn't stop—it only got worse. It wasn't about dolls or toys anymore. It was about power, control over the house, over our parents.

We tried everything we could think of to break them apart.

I remember one summer when we were eight, we teamed up—for once. It was a rare alliance, but we had a common goal. We would ruin their date night. They had planned a nice evening out, leaving us with a babysitter. The second the door closed behind them, we launched into action.

We snuck into my dad's closet, grabbed his favorite tie, and dunked it into a bucket of paint. Then, we scattered flour all over the kitchen, making it look like a disaster zone. For the final touch, we convinced the babysitter to let us make brownies, and promptly set the oven temperature far too high. Smoke billowed out, and the fire alarm blared.

Our parents came home early that night.

But instead of fighting, they laughed. They didn't yell, didn't scold. They just cleaned it up together, like it was the easiest thing in the world. I stood in the doorway with him, watching them, confused and frustrated. No matter what we did, they were always... happy.

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By the time we hit our teens, we had tried sabotage, lies, even making them jealous with fake stories of other people. None of it worked. They loved each other too much.

But our rivalry deepened.

We couldn't stand to be in the same room. It was like every time I looked at him, I remembered that first day—how he took my doll, how he ruined every quiet moment I could've had with my father. He, in turn, glared at me like I was the one who stole his mother. We didn't need words to communicate our feelings; the silence was thick with resentment.

The moment he turned eighteen, he left. Packed his bags, said his goodbyes to his mother, and didn't even glance my way. I watched him go, not saying a word, feeling an unexpected hollowness creep into my chest. I had wanted him gone for so long, but now that he was leaving, the house felt bigger, emptier. Too quiet.

I stayed behind, of course. My father needed me. Or maybe, in truth, I needed him. I could never tell which was more true. But as much as I didn't want to admit it, I stayed because he—*my stepbrother*—wasn't there anymore.

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Five years passed without seeing him. I heard snippets about his life from my stepmother, who loved him dearly and treated me as her own. We never spoke of the feud, never acknowledged the silent war that once defined our childhood. In her eyes, we were a perfect, blended family.

It was only when her mother passed that he was forced to return. I hadn't expected to feel anything about seeing him again. I told myself it wouldn't matter—five years was a long time. People change. I had changed.

But the moment he walked into the funeral reception, my heart stilled.

He was older, obviously. Taller, more confident in the way he moved. His dark hair was neatly combed, but his eyes were the same. That same fire. That same irritation. And just like that, I was twelve again, standing in the doorway, wondering how he could make me so furious with a single look.

I watched as he crossed the room, greeting familiar faces, avoiding mine. My stepmother embraced him tightly, holding onto him like she hadn't seen him in decades. For a moment, I almost envied their connection. She loved him so much, but it was her love for me that bothered him the most. No matter how hard he tried to break them up, she never treated me differently. She was my mother in every way except blood.

The weight of that resentment still hung between us.

I stayed by the refreshment table, silently sipping on my drink, pretending not to care. But I felt his presence like an electric current, sharp and buzzing at the edge of my awareness.

He turned, finally locking eyes with me across the room. Neither of us smiled.

It was like nothing had changed, and everything had changed, all at once.