My little brother, Akram, can sometimes be a gigantic pain. He is my parents favorite and I always have to do the chores. Akram doesn't care if he does anything bad because he knows that my parents will believe anything he says and he will just blame it on me. He gets whatever he wants even if we can't afford it, he gets his own room while I have to share with my older brother, Barak, and he acts like he's my dad. Baraks room smells like mold and sweat, he has a pile of socks that looks like it's alive, and I always hear his music playing through his earbuds.
“Latoya,”my mom calls to me, “come down now, we are leaving to go to the mosque.”
My parents favor Akram, but why? Maybe it might be because he is the youngest, or maybe it's because he
“Latoya,”my mom calls to me, “come down now, we are leaving to go to the mosque.”
My parents favor Akram, but why? Maybe it might be because he is the youngest, or maybe it's because he