My Brother's Keeper

Ever since I was old enough to understand, I knew that while most people got their lives from their parents, I got mine from my brother.

My brother, Mike, was four years older than me. When he had his pre-school checkup, they found he had a chronic blood disorder.

To try and cure Mike, my folks, who hadn’t planned on having another kid, were forced to have me.

My Grandma told my mom, "Having another baby might be good. One, it could help Mike. Two, if it's a girl, you'll get yourself a sweet little helper."

Then I was born.

Unfortunately, I turned out to be a boy, not my mom’s sweet little helper, and my bone marrow wasn't a match for Mike.

So, I became the black sheep of the family.

Whenever Mike got sick, my mom blamed herself for not taking better care of him and would always take it out on me.

"David, if I'd known you'd be so useless, I never would've had you! Now, we have to divide our attention, and Mike gets less love!"

As a kid, I didn't realize my mom was playing favorites. I just blamed myself for not having the right blood type for my brother.

So, I grew up with this constant feeling of guilt.

When I turned six, I started being able to help out.

When my folks went to their food stall, I’d be the one cooking for Mike.

Back then, we had this old-school wood stove. I’d stand on a stool, waving a spatula, making fried rice for him, and almost fell in the pot more than a few times.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, saw it and told my mom, "David's only six! You can’t have him cooking like that! It's too dangerous."

My mom just scowled at her and snapped, "If you're so worried about him, why don't you cook for Mike? If you feel so bad for David, why don't you just take him home with you?"

Mrs. Peterson got so mad, she never bothered with our family again.

When I was in fifth grade, my parents rented a small two-bedroom apartment downtown, to make it easier for Mike to see his doctors.

My parents got one bedroom, Mike got the other, and I got the couch.

Life got tighter in the city. To save on the electricity bill, my mom made me hand-wash the whole family's laundry.

What I hated the most was washing my brother's jeans and my folks' greasy aprons from the food stall.

Those jeans were so stiff, and those aprons so grimy that I’d always end up with cuts on my hands.

My mom never seemed to care about that though. She’d just grab the laundry detergent and tell me I was using too much, then frown and lecture me.

"You're not sick, David. What's the big deal about doing some chores? You need to remember, if it wasn't for your brother's health, you never would have been born, so you need to be grateful, and take care of him."

Because of this ‘gratitude’, I’d never had a full meal growing up, and wore Mike’s hand-me-downs.

Because of ‘gratitude’, I’d go to school all day and then help out at the food stall at night, and all the money I earned would go towards buying Mike supplements.

But I never complained.

I always thought thing...