The Brother I Lost, The Life I Found

On New Year’s Eve, I received a bouquet of flowers with a card inside: “Wishing Jenna Smith a Happy New Year.” The signature was just a simple letter “J.” With one glance, I recognized that person’s handwriting, and his face came flooding back to mind. Along with our shameful past. My fingers unconsciously tightened around the card. A moment later, I tossed the bouquet into the trash. Jason Crawford—the man who had once nearly walked with me into the halls of matrimony. But ever since my brother died, there’s been nothing between him and me.

Seeing me throw the flowers in the trash, my colleague Ms. Lewis guessed who they were from. “Is it him?” I didn’t answer, just kept working on my lesson plan. Ms. Lewis sighed softly when she saw my reaction. “I heard he’s planning to come teach at our school too. You’ll be colleagues eventually. Besides, he was your brother’s best…” “Ms. Lewis.” I cut her off. “In my brother’s short twenty-seven years of life, he never had a friend like that.” Ms. Lewis looked at me. “Jenna, after all these years, do you still hate him?” “Yes.” My answer was crisp and cold. My colleague looked stunned. After a long pause, she shook her head and left. When I left work, I ran into Principal Anderson, who had once been my brother’s and Jason’s teacher. After exchanging brief pleasantries, he suddenly spoke with a complicated tone. “I got a call this afternoon. Jason is coming back.” I hummed in acknowledgment. The principal was silent for a moment, then tried to persuade me: “Your brother was a very forgiving person. If he were still alive, he wouldn’t want to see you two like this.” Like what? Like enemies? I didn’t understand why everyone kept telling me to let the past go. Just because something has already happened, does that mean the victim has to be forced to accept it? Clearly I had the right to stand on moral high ground, yet I kept being held hostage by them. Colleagues. Leadership. Why were they all speaking up for Jason? I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to understand. On my way home from work, the evening breeze carried a chill that stung my cheeks. I composed my expression and slowly climbed the stairs. When I pushed open the door, my parents and my husband were making dumplings. My three-year-old daughter Lucy sat on the sofa, holding a small piece of dough in her hands, poking at it and having the time of her life. “Mommy!” Lucy spotted me immediately. She dropped the dough and toddled over to me on her little legs. I bent down to pick her up and kissed her soft cheek. She held up the oddly shaped piece of dough in her hand and said sweetly, “Mommy, look! I made a cookie.” I held back tears. “Lucy, that’s amazing!” I took the “cookie” and walked to an empty spot at the dining table, gently setting it down. That was my brother’s place. It had been that way for five years. As if he were still with us. Lucy tugged at my sleeve and asked in confusion, “Mommy, why is Uncle always stuck in that frame?” “Why doesn’t he come out to eat cookies? Why doesn’t he come play with me?” I looked at my brother’s photo not far away. He would forever remain twenty-four years old, in the prime of his life. The air went quiet for a moment. My parents’ movements paused, then resumed as if nothing had happened. My husband squeezed my hand and gave me a reassuring look. I looked at my daughter’s innocent eyes, stroked her hair, and said nothing. I thought, if my brother were still here, he would surely be a good son, a good brother, a good uncle. But there are no “ifs.” Over these five years, I thought I had buried those shameful memories, along with that person, in the deepest corner of my heart. But it turns out that just the slightest disturbance can make those scabbed wounds bleed again.