Bringing Up Brother
I’ve been a caregiver all my life. Why don’t I long for kids of my own?
My brother was born thirteen years after me. The two of us have the same brown skin, the same curly black hair, the same deep-set eyes. But that’s where our similarities end. He is six feet three inches tall, athletic and long-limbed, capable of engulfing me in a single embrace. He’s gentle yet fearless, by far the boldest in our family. He stubbornly pursues what he wants in ways more ingenious than I could ever devise.
More in this series
I was thin-skinned as a child, with an ego that could put bruised peaches to shame.
Papa left the summer I turned eight. The emotional toll of a wife who blamed him was too much to carry along with the burden of repatriating thousands of Filipino citizens.
If cancer and trauma are hereditary, is it not my responsibility to do everything in my power to ensure neither my children nor I have to suffer?