David and his brother had not had an argument. That was the strange part. There had been a comment at a family dinner — something about money, something about priorities — and then a silence that lasted days, then weeks. Neither of them called. Both of them assumed the other would. The months passed and the silence became a habit, and the habit became a distance, and the distance became something neither of them knew how to cross. They still sent messages at Christmas. They were still brothers. But something essential had been allowed to drift apart, and by the time David noticed, he wasn't sure he remembered how to get it back.

David drove to his brother's house on a Saturday without calling first. He stood at the door for a moment, then rang the bell. His brother opened it, looked at him, and said nothing for a few seconds. Then he stepped aside and let him in. They sat at the kitchen table and talked for three hours. Not about the comment, not about the money — about everything else. About their father. About being tired. About missing each other. Nobody said sorry in any formal way. But before David left, his brother put a hand briefly on his shoulder. They had not resolved everything. But they had made up in the only way that mattered — by showing up and staying.