My brother and I had a typical brother-sister bond, including yelling and shouting at each other daily. But we also trusted each other. I looked up to him. I was going to be the hot-shot eighth-grader; my brother was a senior. He was my role model, and I never could help bragging about him.

One day my brother said, “Let’s take a walk.” We walked in silence around half a block when he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. I stared at him. My brother glanced at me as he held the cig in his mouth. I shook my head, and just watched him light the “cancer stick” hanging from his lips.

Then he dumped his life story on me. In fifth grade he started smoking cigarettes with a few friends he’d met at a public school. This led to smoking pot and, further down the road in high school, using hash and other drugs. He had a stash in his locker and a pill bottle lined with cotton.

That summer, things just continued to get worse. I prayed harder as I watched my brother’s life spiral downward and waste away. He would come home pink-eyed almost every night, claiming his eyes were just dry. He and my parents would scream at each other at night. Doors would slam, and I would lie in my bed as my parents wondered what went wrong. He stopped going to church.

Finally one night, I decided to do something. My brother was home in his room, and I was in bed. I quietly walked into the dining room with a tear-stained face and started explaining to my parents.

The next thing I knew my dad was yelling at my brother. My parents went into my brother’s room while he was gone at school and started packing. They were sending him to a Christian rehab center. While they packed, I stayed at a friend’s house; I never got to say good-bye.

For three months, my brother stayed at rehab. He was allowed 30 minutes on the phone with his family per week. I would try to talk to him, but he normally wouldn’t talk back. I felt so much guilt and wondered if my brother would ever talk to me again. What if he came out of rehab still addicted? Does he hate me for telling our parents? I prayed so hard those three months, just praying that my parents hadn’t wasted thousands of dollars. I almost regretted telling my parents. But I kept praying for my brother.

He graduated on Dec. 29, one day after my birthday. We went to visit him, and, for the first time in three months, I looked at my brother. So much had changed. I walked up to him. We both happened to be wearing red, long-sleeved shirts.

“Nice shirt.” he said.

“You too.”

“I missed you. Thank you, so much,” he said. I hugged him. And for the first time in three months, I felt no guilt.