I have a brother.
A half-brother, actually, from my father’s first marriage. I knew him when I was little but the last time I saw him was at my father’s funeral. I was nineteen.
I’ve been wondering about him lately. I remember he was closer in age to my mom than to my sister and I (my parents had twenty years difference in their ages). I remember he had brown curly hair but was balding. He had three kids and was married to a tall woman named Barbara. They lived in the farmland of California. He taught math. I once rode a pony at their sprawling ranch-style house. He gave me my first kitten. I named it Dumbo. He and our dad weren’t particularly close and my child’s mind recalls stunted conversations with awkward pauses during infrequent visits.
It’s weird to think that there is this person out there in the world sharing blood and DNA and yet I do not know him. The more I delve into healing my hurts around my dad, the more I think about finding him because I want to know my dad in a different context. I want someone outside of my immediate family to talk to about the man I called Dad because most days I’m not sure I knew that man at all.
So I’m mulling it over- finding my long lost half-brother- and feeling. . . well, feeling apprehensive and nervous. But it keeps coming up for me and so I know it’s something I need to pursue. Even if it falls flat. Even if he wants nothing to do with me. Even if he tells me things about our dad that I think I don’t want to know. Because I want to know. I need to. I do.