Thank You for Being My Brother

When I was ten years old, my parents died on their way to pick up my brother from prison. At the funeral home, I stared at the man kneeling by the caskets—my brother, just released after serving five years. I rushed at him and shoved him with all my strength: “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t been in prison, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have gone to get you! They wouldn’t be dead!” Damian stumbled from my push but didn’t look up. He just kept praying harder. From that day on, I never called him my brother again.

Mom kept treasures in an old metal box. Young and curious as I was, I couldn’t resist sneaking a look when the adults weren’t home. Inside the box was a very old ultrasound report. It read: [Umbilical cord blood match successful. Donor: Fetus. Recipient: Damian] Damian was my brother, fifteen years older than me. For as long as I could remember, he’d been in prison. Mom and Dad never talked about what he’d done. But every time they came back from visiting him, Mom’s eyes would be swollen from crying, and Dad would chain-smoke in silence all night. Before I turned ten, everything I knew about my brother amounted to this: a blurry name, a stranger who made our parents cry, and the entire reason for my existence. Yes, I knew. I was never the product of my parents’ love. I was just proof of how much they loved him. Mom’s health was poor. She risked a late-life pregnancy with me only because Damian had leukemia and needed cord blood from a newborn to survive. The day I was born, Damian’s surgery was a success. And me? I was just a “useful tool” in this family. Karma’s funny that way. Who would’ve thought the brother wrapped in our parents’ love would commit murder and end up behind bars? I was five that year. I was too young to remember why Damian went to prison. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that I would go from being the family’s “tool” to being Mom and Dad’s only child. That didn’t last long. When I turned ten, Damian was released. Mom and Dad left early that morning, full of hope about giving him a fresh start. Then the news came. A truck’s brakes had failed. It crashed into their car. Dad died instantly. Mom held on until we got to the hospital. She only said one thing to me: “Claire, take care of your brother.” I didn’t understand. Why was I supposed to take care of him when I was the child who needed taking care of? Before I could argue with her, Mom closed her eyes. At the funeral home, I looked at the stiff smiles in Mom and Dad’s photos, then at the stranger kneeling before their caskets—my brother, whom I hadn’t seen in five years. His forehead pounded against the floor, blood seeping out and mixing with his tears. Relatives whispered, their stares like needles in my back. “Poor thing, losing her parents so young…” “Living with a murderer for a brother—what’s going to happen to her?” I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. Then I rushed at him and shoved with all my strength: “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t been in prison, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have gone to get you! They wouldn’t be dead!” Damian stumbled but didn’t look up. He just kept hitting his head against the floor, harder than before. The night after the funeral, Damian found me in the dark living room. He wore an ill-fitting old shirt, his eyes sunken, looking like a skeleton. “Claire.” His voice was hoarse as he reached to touch my hair. I dodged away. “Don’t touch me,” I said. His hand froze mid-air, then slowly dropped.