Apparently, sibling closeness doesn’t follow a straight line so much as it takes the scenic route (my family ssssooooo loves the scenic route. We love everything about dragging events on like they’re a binge-worthy drama on Netflix). Kids start out glued together in early and middle childhood, only to dramatically (or quietly, but do we truly ever do anything quietly???) drift apart in adolescence and early adulthood — because nothing says “individuality” like avoiding your sibling while you create your adult self. Things may settle down again in middle adulthood, but let’s not pretend that happens here.
But then there’s the special case — the unexpected left-turnish — when one sibling doesn’t just drift. They walk away. Full exit stage left. No forwarding address, no dramatic monologue, just a quiet fade into the great semi-unknown. And what then?
Then you get the bonus package: years of extra burdens, the emotional heavy lifting and life choices you weren’t meant to make solo, the awkward silences at holidays, and the parade of relatives and family friends who pull you aside with that same furrowed brow to ask the same questions you used to ask. “Have you heard from them?” “Do you know why they left?” “What happened?”
And you smile, shrug, or deflect — because you’ve become the unofficial spokesperson for a mystery you didn’t sign up to solve.
And then — out of absolutely nowhere — a message pops up that basically says, “Can we talk.”
I stared at it like it’s a spam text from a prince who wants to send me millions (I mean, you can send me millions, it’s fine… hundreds are accepted as well!). Can we talk? About what, exactly?
The weather? Should I open with, “How ’bout them Yankees,” like we’re two strangers making small talk at a bus stop?
What conversation exists — in any known universe — where I can be civil, composed, and emotionally available after a 25‑year sibling hiatus? A quarter century of silence, distance, and me carrying the extra weight when it should have been an even split?
Now suddenly: “Can we talk.” Sure. And maybe next we’ll discuss quantum physics or the proper care and feeding of unicorns that fart glitter, because apparently anything is possible, including those flying cows my Dad often referred to when I would ask for something quasi-expensive.
But I digress.
I did have a couple of snark‑flavored lines ready to fire off — and yes, I absolutely hoped he felt them. Judging by his response, I’m going to assume the message landed with the exact level of sting I intended.
My immediate reaction, aside from a very loud internal WTF, was WHY. Why today? Why after all this time? Why after years of watching him be “friends” with members of the family tree on social media while keeping me at arm’s length like I was radioactive? Why now?
Curiosity, of course, is my fatal flaw. It always gets the best of me. So, I agreed to talk to him.
In true cosmic‑irony fashion, I had his number saved in my contacts — which was a surprise all by itself. I know this because his name came across my screen and stunned me when he called. He said hello, and I realized I had zero recollection of his voice. None. It took me a minute to get past that.
How does someone who has technically been my brother since my adoption have a voice I can’t remember? This was a wild mind‑bend if ever there was one. I can recall the sound of him barreling down the stairs in our house to take the garbage out. I remember the mannerisms, the posture, the attitude. But the voice? Nope. Blank slate.
I said what I said — I didn’t feel like I held back. I have no idea if he did; he was never exactly the “emotionally expressive” type. He said his piece, and I heard him. But what I heard was a version of him I didn’t recognize. Gone was the sarcastic, holier‑than‑thou persona I’d carried around like a hand‑me‑down.
And dare I say it… there was a humbleness in his tone. A softness. Something unfamiliar, unexpected, and honestly a little disorienting. I was ready for combat and he was way too mellow for that!
The bigger surprise wasn’t the initial conversation — it was the follow‑up one the next week, and the text messages after that. Once we aired the things that pissed us both off, I honestly thought this was going to be a one‑hit wonder. A “he had a moment, now he’s gone” situation. But here we are.
Families are… well, families. Some are great, some mediocre, some broken and withered like a houseplant no one watered in August. And I get it — I’ve spent the last 25 years marinating in extreme dislike and hard feelings. I’ve searched and researched my history, and I found way more than I bargained for. Siblings up the wazoo. A whole buffet of DNA connections.
But here’s the thing about the one you grew up with: When I met other siblings, I compared every single one of them to my brother. He may not have been perfect — far from it — but he is my brother and he is what I know. We have the core memories. We grew up with the same chaos, the same customs, the same soundtrack of childhood. I can say “so‑and‑so is my biological brother,” sure. But I never say “so‑and‑so is my adopted brother,” because he’s always just been my brother.
Are we in a good place? I genuinely don’t know. Can it get better? Absolutely. Can it get worse? I mean… based on the past 25 years, it’s doubtful we can sink to a lower level.
Is it worth talking? Asking how the other is doing? Calling? I’m going to say yes.
And for those who know me well, go ahead and pick your jaws up off the floor. I’ll wait.
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