He pulled his lips together, closed his eyes, and I watched the first teardrop fall down the side of his cheek.
“And now,” he whispered, “you talk.” Me? “Your family. I know about your parents.”
“I met them, years ago, at graduation. You have a sister, too, right?”
Yes, I said. “Older, yes?” Older. “And one brother, right?” I nodded.
“Younger?” Younger. “Like me,” Morrie said. “I have a younger brother.”
Like you, I said.He also came to your graduation, didn’t he?
I blinked, and in my mind I saw us all there, sixteen years earlier, the hot sun, the blue robes,
squinting as we put our arms around each other and posed for Instamatic photos, someone saying, “One, two, threeee...”
“What is it?” Morrie said, noticing my sudden quiet. “What’s on your mind?” Nothing, I said, changing the subject.
The truth is, I do indeed have a brother, a blond-haired, hazel-eyed, two-years-younger brother,
who looks so unlike me or my dark-haired sister that we used to tease him by claiming strangers had left him as a baby on our doorstep.
“And one day,” we’d say, “they’re coming back to get you.”
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