Brothers

Words are rarely understood as meant; they are filtered through the personal history and context of the speaker and the listener. Kipling called them a powerful drug, and Hawthorne, a force for good or evil. Never underestimate their impact.

My brother and I drifted apart a long time ago because of the things we said—and the things we didn't. Our parents used to say that 'words are all we have,' but I was too young and stubborn to understand what they were trying to say. I’d lash out at my brother and say horrible things, convinced he wasn't really listening. I told myself he didn't like me anyway, so it didn't matter. What I could never say out loud was how much I looked up to him. I spent so much time screaming that I never just talked to him or told him I just wanted us to be friends.

He was the ultimate golden boy—quarterback, star pitcher, and homecoming king. Everything he touched turned to gold, and I hated him for it. I lacked any natural athletic ability; I couldn't throw, I was a slow runner, and I was a permanent outsider. Seeing him achieve so much with no effort just fueled my resentment.

When he left for college, a heavy silence settled over the house. I missed my older brother more than I could say, but the words always caught in my throat. Every time he called, I’d make an excuse to hang up. Whenever he visited, I filled my schedule with distractions—anything to avoid the vulnerability of being near him again.

The car accident that took our parents’ lives happened right in the middle of my senior year. I was barely eighteen. My brother returned to the funeral and tried to console me, but I wouldn’t give him a chance. He offered to stay, but I pushed him away, insisting I was fine and that I didn’t want him there. In the end, he packed all his belongings, signed over his share of the house to me, and left. He told me there was nothing worth coming back for anyway, leaving me alone in a house that was now entirely mine.

I used to think my heart would break in that empty house, needing my brother but fearing to mend the deep scars we shared. I let the gap grow, and with it, time vanished. It happened fast—school, marriage, children, a whole new life built on top of a missing piece. Now, I don't even know what became of him or even where he lives. The silence isn't filled with tears anymore, just quiet sorrow.

I became an English teacher, and with that, I taught my children that words are the most powerful tools we have. Every day, I encouraged them to express their feelings, be it joy, sadness, or anger. I refused to let the silence I experienced with my brother repeat itself in their lives. Regardless of our busy schedules, Sunday dinner remained sacred. It was our time to talk, laugh, cry, and truly connect. I made it a priority to be present in their lives and to foster a close, active connection between each of them. I quietly pushed them to be close, desperate to spare them the heartbreak of losing a sibling, as I had.

When my oldest son was in high school, he initiated a genealogy project that prompted deep questions about my past. As I told him about his grandparents—sharing how deeply I loved them and how profound the loss was at such a young age—the conversation naturally shifted, and he asked about my brother.

With a mixture of joy and sorrow, I finally spoke the words I’d held back for years. “He was my hero—everything I aspired to be but didn’t think I could. But I pushed him away, and he never came back." I opened up about how I’d kept my brother at arm's length, realizing now that I never allowed him to connect with me, even though it was what I wanted all along.

“Why?” was all that my son said.

"I never understood why I couldn't be close to him. I wanted to be his friend, but his accomplishments only highlighted my own failings. Instead of feeling the admiration I should have felt, I felt only bitter resentment.” I paused. “I pushed and pushed until he left and never came back.” I sighed, “I pushed my brother right out of my life, and all I wanted to do was to tell him how much I cared and how much I really needed him, and now it’s too late.”

“Who says? ' My son smiled, “Find him, tell him, it’s never too late if you really mean it, family is everything, isn’t that what you are always telling us?”

“Where would I start?”

“There is this thing called Google, everyone has a digital imprint of their lives on there. Go to the college he went to and see if he’s listed as an alumnus; they normally keep their addresses on file for fundraisers and events.”

A late-night search with my son sparked a glimmer of hope: a possible match. The next Sunday, over dinner, the search for my brother became a family mission. I needed them by my side for this. Two weeks from now, once school lets out, we’re Alabama-bound to try and finally connect with my Hero.

Revisiting our past adventures during this trip brought a painful realization: my immature resentment ruined everything. I finally understood that he needed me, and I was the one isolating him, not him isolating me. When he said there was nothing worth coming back to, he was talking about me because of how I treated him.

Once we found an address, we drove to what we hoped was his home. It was a large sprawling two-story with white columns and a wrap-around front porch, with rocking chairs and a hanging porch swing in the corner. It looked like a family home, which showed a lot of love and togetherness. A young boy rode up on his bicycle. I approached him and asked if Michael Gallanger was home.

“That’s my dad, I’ll go get him.” As he walked into the front, he yelled, “Dad, someone’s at the door for you.”

“Who is it, David?” came a voice from upstairs.

“Your name is David?” I smiled; he named his son after me.

“Yes, who are you? The boy asked.

“I’m David Gallanger, your uncle.”

Just then, my brother walked out the front door.

“David”

“Michael.”

We stood and stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Then we smiled and embraced. Names were exchanged, and voices filled the room, continuing long after the pizza boxes were empty. Later that night, the backyard became a playground for the kids and a retreat for the wives, giving us space for a personal conversation.

“I came to see you on the tenth anniversary of their death, but you were at the cemetery with a woman and a small child. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I wish you had.” I paused. “You disappeared. What happened to you?”

“After mom and dad died, I dropped out of college and backpacked through Europe for a few years.”

“Your dream of going to college and becoming a business manager like dad died with them?”

“I never wanted to study business, that was all dad, I did what they expected me to do?

“What do you mean?”

“I played sports because he told me to, I went to Harvard because they told me to, I was so envious of you because they didn’t push you into anything, they let you be you.”

“I was envious of you, because you were the Golden Boy, everything you did, you shone, and they praised you, it’s all I ever heard, why can’t you be more like Michael, why don’t you do a sport, it’s all I ever heard?

“Guess they screwed with both of our heads. I was envious of you, and you were envious of me. That is what drove us apart, and it didn’t need to.”

“One thing I’ve learned is parents don’t have a guide; no one tells them what to do and what not to do.It’s all trial and error. Pattie and I have talked about writing a parents' guide to not screwing up your children, maybe you could contribute to it.”

“You named your oldest son Michael after me. Thank you”

“You named yours David after me. How did we both do that?”

“Guess we are not as screwed up as we thought, and maybe there is still hope for the future.”

“I don’t know what made mom and dad pit us against each other, why they thought that would be a good thing, unfortunately, we will never know, but together we can make sure that trend does not continue. How do you feel about house guest for a few weeks, so we can really reconnect as a family?”

“I would love that, and maybe it’s time I tell you, I love you, David.”

“I love you too.”