Andrew and Mandy

During my family's quiet evening-hour, my face was cramped with pouts; my OCD was a psychiatric-jerk, and my legs ached from the exercises that I had undertaken to get out of my own head. As I held my schoolbook listlessly, I heard from the basement my father's tirade,

"I've told you before not to touch that, Andrew"--my heart buckled then reared at the displeased emphasis on my five-year-old brother's name--"I'm not going to tell you again.''

My heart leaped in union with my brother's hasty steps up the stairs; I watched him stand at his spot at the table and nibble a gummy-fish. The moment that he turned around and began walking towards me, to pass me on the way to the stairs going up, I offered him my most pleasant face. He smiled brilliantly, but his eyes were brilliant too, with tears.
As he clambered upstairs, his teddy which he held tripped him so that he bumped-a-bumpa down four of the carpeted steps; Andrew crowed with laughter while looking around on us, his family, whereon he greatest appreciated my delighted eyes. Andrew continued on upstairs, saying as he did so, "Oh, goodnight, Mandy, love you."

That last remark made me smile from ear to ear.