I am Not Okay

To clarify, I didn’t dislike Jamira. That would have been easier. If she had been rude, cold, manipulative, or even messy, that would have been a problem. But she wasn’t. She was actually… fine.

Too fine. She cooked, cleaned, smiled, and even asked Kayla about school. She even bought my favorite coffee creamer without asking.

Which somehow made the situation worse. If she had been awful, I could have easily explained my frustration to Eric. Instead, I sounded crazy.

“Hey Eric, your pregnant girlfriend is too nice, and I hate hearing you laugh through the walls.”

Yeah, that would have gone over well. The condo used to feel manageable and predictable. Now, it felt crowded. Not because of bodies, but because of emotions, mostly mine.

Jamira was trying to settle in, Eric was trying to be a provider, and I was trying not to feel pushed out. Kayla was asking questions.

The baby was somehow already taking up space without even being born yet, and no one was saying anything about it.

One night, I was making Kayla a sandwich in the kitchen while Eric and Jamira were laughing in the living room. That laugh—that soft, intimate one Eric used when he was relaxed—hadn’t been heard much lately.

Jamira walked in, smiling.

“Need help?”

I forced a smile back, “No, I got it.”

Jamira nodded and opened the fridge. Even that irritated me. It felt like she belonged there.

Which—technically—she did. That thought made me feel like shit.

“You okay?” Jamira asked.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Jamira slowly shut the fridge.

“If this is about me being here—“

“It’s not,” I said.

“It feels like it,” she persisted.

I finally looked at her. And there it was. Not anger, but exhaustion.

“I just miss my space,” I said.

Jamira blinked. That honesty surprised us both.

“This is your home too,” Jamira said softly.

“Is it?”

Jamira frowned.

I laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Because lately, it feels like I’m the guest,” I said.

That landed hard, and Jamira’s expression shifted. It wasn’t defensive. It was understanding. Which somehow made me want to cry.

“I’m not trying to replace you,” Jamira said.

“I know,” I replied.

“Then what is it?”

I hesitated because saying it aloud made it real. Then—

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to stay and support Eric through this…”

My voice began to crack.

“…or move out before I start resenting everyone.”

There was that heavy silence again as Jamira stared at me. And for the first time, it felt as though she truly saw me. Not as Eric’s protective sister or as passive-aggressive opposition. Just a woman losing her footing.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Jamira’s pregnancy wasn’t obvious yet, and life still felt normal enough. Eric still sat on the couch with me and Kayla watching movies, still picked up takeout after work, and still knocked on my door to ask if I needed anything from the store. It felt temporary.

Like eventually, things would settle and we’d all find our rhythm.

But then her stomach started growing, and suddenly everything felt real. There were baby bottles on the counter, tiny socks in shopping bags, doctor appointments marked on the calendar, and Eric talking about cribs, schools, and names.

His son. Every time he said my son, something twisted painfully in my chest. Not because I wasn’t happy for him because, believe me, I was. That was the worst part. I was happy.

But happiness and sadness could apparently exist in the same place.

Because while Eric was preparing for a new chapter, I was left realizing an old one was ending.

Another evening, I stood in the hallway outside Eric’s room, and the door was cracked slightly.

Inside, Jamira sat on the bed in one of Eric’s shirts while he rubbed cocoa butter across her stomach carefully, as if it were something sacred.

They were laughing softly, and the room looked warm, safe, and complete.

Then the baby kicked, and Eric froze.

“Oh shit,” he whispered, grinning.

Jamira laughed.

“See? I told you he kicks more at night.”

Eric placed his hand on her stomach again, his smile so wide it was almost painful to behold. Suddenly, I felt like I was witnessing something I no longer belonged to.

It was family, their family. I stepped away quietly before they noticed me.

Later that night, as Kayla slept beside me, I stared at the ceiling, unable to breathe around the lump in my throat. All I could think about was:

What happens to us when that baby arrives? Not only that, my mind drifted back to that random Tuesday when everything went completely awry.

Perhaps I was being overly dramatic, too sensitive, or too attached. But that day, Kayla had said something that made my chest cave in.

Homework lay spread across the dining table, chicken was in the oven, and Jamira was asleep in Eric’s room because pregnancy apparently made her tired every five minutes.

Eric had just gotten home, kissed Jamira’s forehead, checked on dinner, ruffled Kayla’s hair, and disappeared back into his room to shower.

It had only been about ten minutes.

Kayla looked up from her math worksheet.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Uncle Eric mad at me?”

I froze.

“What?”

She shrugged, as if she were asking the weather.

“He doesn’t really play with me anymore.”

God.

“Baby, he’s just busy.”

“With the baby?”

I swallowed hard.

“A little.”

She nodded slowly.

Then she asked, “Will he still play with me when the baby gets here?”

And there it was—the fear, pure and small, and honest.

I sat beside her.

“Of course.”

But even saying it, I hated how uncertain I felt.

Kayla stared at her worksheet.

“Because he only sees me for little bits now.”

I wanted to say she was wrong, but she wasn’t. Eric saw her—quick hugs, passing jokes, a few minutes here and there. But the kind of time she meant? That had changed. And kids always know.

Later that night, after dinner and his shower, Eric sat on the couch, half-watching TV while rubbing his eyes.

I stood in the doorway.

“We need to talk.”

He immediately muted the television.

That alone made me emotional. Because once upon a time, I didn’t have to schedule moments with my brother.

“What’s wrong?”

I crossed my arms.

“Kayla asked if you were mad at her.”

His whole body stiffened.

“What?”

“She thinks you don’t want to spend time with her anymore.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, Eric, I made it up for fun.”

“Kacie—”

“She’s eight.”

His face fell hard.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t realize.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

That came out sharper than I intended.

Eric looked up.

“Kace—”

“No, I’m not trying to attack you.”

But maybe I was , Maybe a little.

“She misses you.”

His jaw tightened.

“I miss her too.”

“Then why does it feel like we have to catch you between bathroom breaks and baby appointments?”

I swear every time it goes silent around here the air becomes heavy.

Then quietly he said: “Because I’m trying to hold everything together.”

That took some wind out of me because he did look exhausted. Not dismissive. Exhausted.

“I know,” I said.

“Do you?”

He stood. Now he was emotional too.

“I’m trying to be there for Jamira. For my son. For work. For y’all. Everybody needs something.”

That word hit me. Y’all. Separate. Not us. And maybe he didn’t mean it like that. But that’s how I heard it. And he saw it on my face immediately.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Too late. And in retrospect maybe I was being selfish not considering all the things he’s dealing with. It still didn’t replace the sting in my heart these past two months have placed on it.