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.
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More in this series
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?
“I realized I had to change or I was going to lose you,” my mother told me. “So I did.”