I didn’t want my brother. That sounds kinda harsh, but it’s the truth. I was almost ten when he was born, my sister was almost five, and I felt like our family had plenty of people in it already. I’m not sure why I felt that way, but I was none too enthusiastic about his imminent arrival.
I was invested enough in the idea of him that I tortured my mom in her search for a name for him. She knew his middle name would be Michael, after her youngest brother, but we battled for months over whether his first name would be John (her choice) or David (mine). John was a fine name in the abstract, but I was adamant that “John Michael” sounded like a male model and that was simply unacceptable. In the end, she gave in and I got to pick his name. We all agree now that it was the right call. (You’re welcome.) Continue reading “My Brother’s Keeper”
