I’m not sure how long I spend staring at the mess in the kitchen. I love my brother, but I don’t think I can continue living with him without murdering him. The counters are littered with cereal bowls crusted with rancid milk. There are granola bar wrappers on most surfaces.

I returned late last night from a business trip and, faced with my kitchen this morning, I realize how much time I’ve spent cleaning up after him. I wonder how many socks I picked up and ...