To My Brother (Part 2)

A Letter Never Sent

Author's Note:

I believe this is the part that made this letter the hardest to write. It took me a week to finish it. It is still difficult to read today. The shame has not yet disappeared. It is a very heavy and emotionally suffocating piece. To be honest, my hand still trembles, and I still hesitate to make it public. But I hope—yes, I truly hope—that as you read it, you will resist the urge to judge either me or my older brother. This goes far beyond the simple wounds between two brothers.

If you haven't read Part One yet, you can find it here.

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…As we grew older,
our relationship
only continued to deteriorate.

And yet,
I kept trying,
again and again,
to shorten the distance between us.

I did not understand.

Or perhaps, unconsciously,
I was simply avoiding
facing that reality.

I felt
more and more invisible,
pushed aside.

We had the same friends,
and yet loneliness
remained my most faithful companion.

You were kinder to strangers
than to me,
your little brother.

But yes,
the child kept his eyes closed.

I refused to accept that truth.

You were more willing
to help others than me.

You forced me to become
independent of you,
independent of us.

And I think
I became like you—

kinder to strangers
than to those closest to me.

I did not understand your reasons.
I still don’t.
But I never blamed you.

I had taken my distance as well,
yet I still spoke to you
when it was necessary,
when it truly mattered.

Like the time
I was about to leave Colombia.

It was a complicated journey.
A dangerous one.

I could have lost my life.
I almost did.

A perilous crossing.

I turned to you for help.

Life had not been all kind to me in Colombia.
I was struggling financially.

You promised to help me.
You gave me hope.
But in vain.

Yet that is not
what broke our bond.

Do you remember?

When I arrived in Mexico,
I was at my lowest.
No money.
Nothing at all.

And despite everything,
I came to you once again.

You told me you couldn’t help.

I understood.
I accepted it.

Then you came back
with reasonable questions:
How much did I need?
Where exactly was I?

You gave me hope,
fed my faith,
only to stab my heart.

You said you wanted the information
for a friend
who had already made the journey.

Are you aware
of the pain you caused me?

Maybe.
Or maybe not.

But know this:

That was the moment
I laid down my arms.

The moment I stopped trying
to bring us closer.

I never held a grudge,
and yet,
I can be resentful.

But you are my brother.
My family.

To me, that bond is sacred.

I didn’t understand it then,
but I didn’t want
us to drift apart.

Even after I left the country,
I did everything I could
to stay in touch.

I never called often—
phone calls have never been
my favorite thing—

but I wrote to you often.

I never hid anything from you.
I never lied to you.

I shared everything with you:
my ideas,
my writing projects,

even when I still had no confidence
in myself
or in my talents.

SO TELL ME, WHY?

Why did you betray me like that?

Why did you always make me
the villain of our story
in the eyes of others?

Why did you make me carry the blame
for our broken bond?

Why did you paint me
as ungrateful,
as a hypocrite,
as someone cold and contemptuous?

Why did you tell everyone
that I despised you?

Why did you tell them
that I no longer tried
to stay in touch?

And yet,
you know it,
I know it,
and God knows it too:

I was the one
who kept trying.

If I did not write to you,
you never did.

And do you know
how much I suffered in Colombia?

Alone.

Far from family.
Far from friends.

I no longer speak
to our old mutual friends.

Because of you.

They wrote to accuse me,
to judge me,
to condemn me
for betraying our brotherhood.

I could not bear it.

So I let my vulgarity
run free.

To you,
perhaps it is nothing.

But to me,
it is a taboo.

I do not give anyone,
outside of family,
the right to judge us.

I told Father, you know.
I told our older brother too.

I told them:

You will always be my brother,
but I will never again
ask you for help.

And now,
the days go by,
and we no longer speak.

I stopped trying.
You did too—
as always.

We no longer speak,
not even on important occasions.

We act
as though the other no longer exists.

No more happy birthdays.
No more Merry Christmas.
No more Happy New Year.

Nothing.

Father is our only intermediary.

That is where we are now,
big brother.

Isn’t it shameful?

Perhaps.

To me, it is, at least a little.

But would you understand me
if I tried again?

Maybe.

But I still resent you too much.

I don’t hate you.

No.

I still have things
to process,
to understand,
about myself,
and about you as well.

Because today,
I have realized
that I never truly
put myself in your place.

You must have suffered too.
You must have lived through your own kind of hell.
You still carry your wounds,
don’t you, brother?

Writing has helped me
grow,
heal,
see,
and understand
with a little more clarity.

I must admit,
my resentment
is slowly fading away.

I no longer have the strength
to hate you,
to hold it against you,
to carry these heavy feelings.

No more strength to fight,
nor the strength
to carry our relationship
all by myself.

Today,
I ask myself:

What would I have done in your place?

Perhaps worse.

Perhaps not.

But I am not better than you.

I must also thank you.

You remain,
just as when we were children,
a pillar of this family.

You take care of our parents,
even if that is not your intention.

Perhaps.

You relieve some of the pressure from me.

Thank you, brother,

for being there for our parents,
for supporting them.

You make my freedom
a little easier to carry,
giving me a certain peace of mind.

You have your own battles,
I know.

I don’t worry about you,

because you are the stronger one,
the more disciplined one
between the two of us.

If I had your discipline,
your dedication,
I would have accomplished
many things already.

That is your strength.

Know this:

Yes, my brother,
you remain my family.
The same flesh,
the same blood.

Nothing and no one
will ever take that away from us.

Even today,
I would still
have your back,
gladly.

If one day
you find yourself in trouble,

I will be there
to help you,
to support you.

I would brave the sun,
the wind,
the storm for you,
for my family.

We were never taught
to speak about our feelings.
It was never a habit
in our home.

But know this:

your bastard of a little brother
truly loves you.

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Mirror Question

Is there someone you stopped reaching out to—not because you stopped loving them, but because you no longer had the strength to carry the relationship alone?

What finally led you to lay down your arms?

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Thank you for reading.

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With Clarity

Odel A.
The Mirror Room