In our house, dinosaurs still roam—but the fiercest one isn’t extinct. My little brother, in all his prehistoric glory, has been upending my world since the day he was born.

First, it was toys–dinosaurs (his favorite), cars, Lego bricks–scattered like fossils across the floor. Then came the true disaster: my prized sketchbook, once filled with carefully drawn portraits, now a feeding ground for his chaotic, crayon-colored stampede. I was furious. Why couldn’t he just stay out of my space?

To him, my room wasn’t off-limits, it was uncharted territory. Where I saw destruction, he saw discovery. My frustration erupted like a volcano, but my shouts only made him freeze, wide-eyed, like he had just spotted a meteor hurtling toward him.

That night, I found one of his toy dinosaurs–a small, green T. rex–left outside my door like a peace offering. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.

I sat beside his sleeping form, watching the rise and fall of his breath. Maybe I’d been the wrong kind of predator, too quick to guard my territory instead of understanding his world.

Dinosaurs don’t stay the same forever. They grow, adapt, evolve. And maybe, so could I.