Rowan was six years old, and he loved being BIG.

He loved reaching the top shelf. He loved tying his own shoes. He loved pressing the elevator button all by himself.

But lately, being big felt… heavy.

Rowan had two little sisters, Lila and Poppy. Lila was four and asked “Why?” a hundred times a day. Poppy was two and liked to copy everything Rowan did, even his funny robot walk.

When Mom cuddled the girls, Rowan’s chest felt tight. When the girls laughed together, Rowan’s ears felt hot.

Rowan felt jealous—like a green, squirmy worm wiggling in his tummy.

And when jealousy wiggled, Rowan sometimes made a bad choice.

He grabbed toys.

He shouted, “Mine!”

Once, when Lila touched his new dragon, Rowan hit her arm.

Lila’s eyes filled with tears. Poppy’s lower lip shook.

Mom rushed over. She held Rowan’s hands gently.

“Rowan,” Mom said, calm but serious, “hands are for helping. Hitting hurts.”

Rowan stared at the floor. He felt mad, and sad, and also a little scared.

He didn’t want to be the kind of brother who made tears.

That night, Rowan lay in bed under his rocket blanket. The house was quiet except for the soft swish of the washing machine.

Rowan listened to the quiet and thought about the day.

“Why do they get so much attention?” he whispered to the dark.

He hugged his favorite toy, a wooden train engine with a red roof.

Then he heard a sound at his window.

*Tap, tap.*

Rowan sat up. The moonlight made a silver square on the floor.

*Tap, tap.*

Rowan padded to the window and pulled back the curtain.

Outside, on the porch railing, stood a small unicorn.

The unicorn was about as tall as Rowan’s knee. His coat was creamy white, like vanilla ice cream.