How Not to Save a Life

I think my little brother might kill his pets, and I have to be okay with that.

Last Thursday, I came home to find him asleep on the couch, backpack tossed to the side, shoes still on. Normal 11-year-old after-school nap. What wasn’t normal was the sight of my mom’s Mother’s Day flowers sitting in a beer stein. The flower vase they used to live in? Now home to two goldfish, circling a small Deadpool figurine holding a blue flag.

My brother has never had pets. No dogs, no cats—our apartment doesn’t allow them, and to be honest, it’s already a mess during the week. So seeing these two fish swimming around in a vase set off alarm bells. My first thought was that he wasn’t ready to care for them, which meant the job would fall to me. I started researching immediately. These fish were alive now, and someone had to keep them that way.

I had a fish once as a kid, but I didn’t take care of it, and it died. I didn’t feel much back then. This time felt different. Maybe because I know more now. I know what could be done, what should be done. I could do it right.

AI helped me identify them—common goldfish. They’d need a proper tank, around 20–30 gallons, an air filter, fish food, gravel. The essentials. Right now, they had none of that. Right now, we were working with a flower vase, two small baggies of fish food, and a small figurine of deadpool holding a blue flag. 

I’ll give my brother credit: he used filtered water from the Brita. But if he wanted to keep them, he’d need to do a lot more. I wanted to make sure he understood what it meant to bring life into a space, even something as small as this.

So I woke him up and had him transfer the fish into a large glass food container—still not ideal, but better than the vase. A little more space, a little more dignity.

Then I asked him to write about what the fish meant to him. If they were just a passing thing, that would be clear. But if they mattered, I wanted him to articulate it. I wasn’t going to let him treat this like a game—feed them when you remember, flush them when they die.

His writing was honest. He’d won them on a field trip for two bucks and named them already. He said they made him feel proud. He promised to feed them and change their water every day. It was a start.

Afterward, I showed him the research. Tank size, filters, price tags. I could see it sinking in—the weight of it. The reality. He sighed and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll just flush them.”

“What?” I asked. “That’s your choice?”

“I can’t afford it. Mom and Dad won’t buy that stuff. So yeah.” His voice was flat. I think he was trying not to feel what he was feeling.

“Okay, if that’s your mindset, then go ahead. Flush them down,” I said with a shrug. We both knew it’d be a waste. He finally had pets. But if he wasn’t willing to try, nothing I said would change his mind. He picked up the container and started walking toward the bathroom.

Before he could pour them in, I stopped him.

“Wait. At least wait until Mom and Dad get home. See what they say. If they can’t help, then you let them go. But if they can help, then you keep them. And you take care of them. You—not me. Not Mom or Dad. You.”

He smiled a little and nodded agreeably.

A few days later, I came home to find the fish in a proper tank. Filter. Gravel. Same Deadpool figurine.

And now comes the harder part: letting go.

They’re not my fish. But I feel responsible. I know better, and I can do more—I can troubleshoot, research, fix. So if something goes wrong, am I to blame for not stepping in?

If I take over, I steal something from my brother: life experience—the chance to learn how to care for something, and to live with the consequences. But if I do nothing, and they die, what then? 

These fish are more than just pets. They’re a test of responsibility, of restraint, of what it means to trust someone else to rise to the occasion. I’m not sure he fully sees that yet.

So I watch. The fish, and my brother.

Sometimes I adjust the water flow so they can swim more freely. But mostly, I leave them alone.

Because this isn’t about the fish. It’s about learning to know better—and not always needing to prove it.

Why I Wrote This

This isn’t really about fish. It’s about what happens when you care about someone, know more than they do, and still choose to let them figure things out on their own. It’s about responsibility, restraint, and how sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to not take over. Especially when you love them.