Thank You for Being My Brother

When I was ten years old, my parents died on their way to pick up my brother from prison.

At the funeral home, I stared at the man kneeling by the caskets—my brother, just released after serving five years.

I rushed at him and shoved him with all my strength:

"This is all your fault! If you hadn't been in prison, Mom and Dad wouldn't have gone to get you! They wouldn't be dead!"

Damian stumbled from my push but didn't look up.

He just kept praying harder.

From that day on, I never called him my brother again.

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Mom kept treasures in an old metal box.