That evening, the three of us sat around Mom’s kitchen table.
Gerard told his story again, slower this time, filling in the gaps. Mom cried from relief, years of buried shame, and the simple joy of having both her sons in the same room. “I’m sorry I gave you up,” she whispered to Gerard.
“You did what you had to do,” he said gently. “We all did.”
Later, after Gerard had fixed the sink and the dishes were finally washed in their proper place, I found myself thinking about secrets and how they grow in the dark like mushrooms, feeding on shame and fear until they’re too big to contain. But here’s what I learned: truth has a way of surfacing, even when it’s buried in the plumbing.
Sometimes the best discoveries come from the places we’re most afraid to look. Gerard and I have been meeting for coffee every Sunday since then. Turns out, having a brother is even better than I imagined… especially one with stories that make my travel adventures look like a trip to the corner store.
“So what’s next?” I asked him last week. He grinned, and for the first time since I’d met him, it reached his eyes. “I was thinking maybe you could teach me how to make one of those travel vlogs.
I’ve got some stories that might interest people.”
I raised my coffee cup. “To new beginnings!”
“And old family recipes!” he added, clinking his mug against mine. Mom called from the kitchen where she was making her famous potato soup… for three this time.
“Boys! Dinner’s ready!”
