The Last Born

My brother was the last born, the third child in an already overwhelmed household. Though I was too young to remember - with only 18 months between my brother and I - it is said that there was no secret that dad was desperate to have a son.

We were born in the early ‘80’s. Toxic masculinity was the name of the game and it was seen, in general, in the way that men were expected to want sons to raise and play catch with, to go fishing and do all of the things that delicate daughters didn’t do.

Though, my dad’s wounds ran deeper.

When dad was not yet four years old his own father died of a brain tumor. He was raised by a desperate and heartbroken mother and sister 11 years older than he was. The family was already poor before my grandfather died, and they were always on the edge of making it or not. The trauma of losing his father and never understanding why, the abuse he received from his mother who was herself the survivor of abuse, and the general growing pains of being a child raised in the 1950’s were a complicated combination. My father never really got to experience having a father for himself, outside of some precious memories of the time he got to spend with his paternal grandfather before he, too, died. That’s why my father so desperately wanted a son, though I’m sure he didn’t recognize it at the time.

My brother was born and doted on with new clothes and toys, because he couldn’t play with the hand me down dolls from my sister and myself. He was named after the grandfather that none of us ever knew - that my father, himself, can barely remember.

But my father’s wounds ran deeper and wider than he was willing to see. And though he loved us - that I have no doubt - he didn’t know how to be present and engaged. He didn’t know how to care for us, how to move past his own pain, which he numbed with booze. Didn’t know how to quell his anger, which erupted towards us and our mother.

My parents divorced when we were still quite young. It was ugly and messy. My sister sided with my mother. My brother sided with my father. And I, the middle child, was instructed to “keep the family together.” And through it all, it was my brother who suffered the most.

Mom resented him for siding with dad, and couldn’t handle his anger and feelings of abandonment - the feelings that she inherently caused by having dad escorted out of the house and received a protection order against. My brother, who was in second grade, was kicked out of the house soon after. Mom said she “couldn’t handle him.” His fits of anger, his frustration, his lack of understanding. And at 8 years old he was told he was a problem, that he was unmanageable. That his own mother didn’t want him.

Dad dried out and remarried, though his new wife was in many ways just as broken as he was. They did their best to love and care for my brother who lived with them full time, but always managed to fall just short of what he needed. The once desperately wanted son instead begged to spend time with his father, to do things together, to engage in shared interests and connect. The child named after dad’s own childhood wound became a reminder of what dad missed out on, and not seen as an opportunity to create something new.

My brother is grown now. He hopes to have children of his own one day. I hope that he dries out before he does. I hope that he recognizes his own pain and learns to forgive dad for all of the harm caused - intentional and not - throughout our lives. That he recognizes his wounds and works to heal from them. Before the cycle continues.

Speculating what might have been if things had been different is a fool’s journey. But such an inviting daydream. How would dad’s life, our lives, have been different if only. And while we all have healing and growing to do through these hard memories, through the difficulties we lived through, through the wounds we need to identify and heal from, it’s impossible to not single out my brother as being a victim and survivor of unimaginable pain and trauma.