Every person with a sibling will tell you they know the other child is their parent’s favorite.  They’ll have an endless list of examples where the other was allegedly favored, but no proof.  Unlike me. I was actually told my brother was the favorite.

I am the product of a relationship between an American soldier and the daughter of a South Vietnamese officer.  To quote my mom, “I think they call it shot gun marry because my dad made him marry me.” 

My mom dropped that tidbit on me recently and then told me that when my dad left the country (after his tour and after my birth) she secretly hoped he wouldn’t come back so she wouldn’t have to leave her country.  But, also, he was her first boyfriend ever and she turned 19 only thirteen days before I was born so she was also worried he wouldn’t come back.
What my mom didn’t know is that over 45 years earlier I was riding in the back of a noisy pickup under a cacophonous camper shell pressed up against the open cab window with my oldest cousin when my grandmother was telling her daughter in law about how my dad didn’t want to go back for us, but because he had legally married my mom at the embassy he was forced to by the Army.

My brother was conceived and born in the US. 

On the surface (the glaring non-whiteness of myself, my mother and brother aside) we were like every other family in our small town living the suburban dream.  When I was 8 both of my parents had established themselves with careers in this new tech industry that was taking over all the farm land in the valley and was providing jobs to everyone displaced by the closure of the Ford Auto plant.  We moved away from Spring Valley Lane and had bought a bigger, newer house in a brand new development on land that used to be Apricot orchards.  We had cars and vacations.  We were like everyone else.

Except for the time I had to call the cops to come because my mom found out about an affair and a violent fight ensued.

Or the time my mom found out about another affair and as my dad was taking us to school she was throwing all the dishes at the car as it backed out of the driveway. When we came home we found the house completely trashed and my mom gone.

And there was the time one of his mistresses showed up at the door. Then her husband showed up 3 minutes later.  And there was a fight on the front lawn.

Actually, we weren’t like everyone else.  My dad was sleeping with half the women in the county and my mom was cycling through bouts of normalcy, rage and depression.  Sometimes they were happy.  More often she was not. 

This isn’t a morality story.  I’m just telling the facts of the situation.  He had affairs.  She was stuck.  It sucked for everyone.  My issue with my dad wasn’t because he had affairs, it was because he let them negatively impact me/us.  Repeatedly. 

They finally divorced when I was 16.  I loaded most of my possessions into my car and left with my mom.  My brother stayed with my dad.  I lived with my dad for about 6 months when I was 18 after a huge blow up with my mom.  It was one of his affairs with a married woman that would drive me and my grandparents who were also living there out and I wouldn’t speak to him for two years. 

Two years later he sent my brother to my mom’s house with a big wad of cash for Christmas after not saying a word to me for two years.  I wasn’t having it so I drove over, returned the cash and demanded to be a priority because I was his daughter, dammit.  He wasn’t having it in his words he was “entitled to his own life.”  I said if this relationship was to be salvaged it would have to be built on mutual respect moving forward because the past was a fucking nightmare.  A courtesy extended to him solely because he is my father.  We agreed to close the door on the past and move forward.  I stopped calling him dad.  I call him Pops.  He never questioned or fought the name change.  I think he found it to be a great relief.  He did indeed father me but struggled with being my dad. 

But he was my brother’s dad happily and wholeheartedly.  In hindsight the first time he told me he had a favorite was when I was 5 and my mom tried to leave because of one of his affairs.  As she tried to leave with us my dad grabbed my brother and said “you’re not taking my son.”  He bought my brother a truck for his 14th birthday despite him not being able to drive for 2 more years so they could go camping and 4-wheeling.  I got my mom’s old car when I got my license at 16.  If I had a competition or event, he’d frequently take my brother out to the desert or forest or beach instead of watching me perform.

For fifteen years after the Christmas Truce he and I functioned like family. We celebrated events.  We talked on the phone.  I brought gifts from my travels and brought him to celebrity events that suited his interests.  Mom clearly had the priority on my time, but that wasn’t really any different from how it had always been. 

Then my brother, Daryl, died.  His body was found in a ditch by some hikers just outside of Virgina City, Nevada.  His truck was missing and everyone in his circle was failing polygraph tests about their relationship with him.  But passing the part where they were asked if they had killed him. Mom went to pieces outwardly.  Dad went to pieces inwardly.  My dad didn’t want to know things about the life my brother was living and the case.  My mom couldn’t know things about the case for her own wellbeing.  I dealt with the investigators and the coroner and the funeral home and the estranged wife who lied to the detectives and my mom.  I dealt with the mother of my niece and my niece.  For the first time ever I managed things for both of them.  I carried his ashes to the cemetery.  It was a familiar role with my mom, but a new one for Pops.  And not one he was particularly comfortable with so he avoided it by avoiding me.

When my son was born two years after my brother’s death the gap widened again.  He never wanted to hold his grandson, but finally broke down on Nate’s first birthday and picked him up to ride on a motorcycle video game.  His wife would send presents in the mail for birthdays and Christmas but they never came to celebrate.  Three years later we would be having our Christmas at a restaurant as was our tradition and he became very emotional about my brother.  Maybe you could blame it on the Midori Martinis he was drinking but we all know the most honest people in the world are drunks and toddlers.

“Daryl was my best friend.  My favorite.”

I said nothing.  We all assume our parents have a favorite.  I always knew it wasn’t me.  Still, that’s not really a fact anyone ever wants confirmed. I consoled myself with the fact that I had witnesses.  At least this wasn’t me overreacting or misinterpreting.  I found smug comfort in being right. Part of me felt bad that he was still grieving so deeply.  The other part of me was keenly aware of the mortified faces of my stepmother and husband and children trying to understand what they heard while likely fearing my response. 

He got up to go to the bathroom and his wife leaned over, “Jude, I…”

I put a hand up and shook my head “I always knew, Maggie.  I just never expected he’d have the balls to say it. “

He’s 79 this year.  His health is worsening and the distance between us now covers multiple states.  I speak to his wife.  Sometimes my calls are returned by her via text.  Occasionally he gets on the phone.  I turn 52 on Saturday and eleven years later I still don’t know how to feel about knowing how he feels.  The default setting in a child’s brain is to love their parents regardless.  Some of us get to add Stockholm Syndrome to the default.  And some of us make it to a place where we can acknowledge the default while feeling nothing and the only way we can explain it is to say “it’s complicated.”

As for me and Pops, obviously, It’s complicated.