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Then there was me. The living disappointment. I struggled in school. My teachers, who taught my older brother, would sing his praises, and expected me to be on the same pedestal. But I couldn't climb to the height he had built for himself.
“I'm sorry, it's my fault he's like this,” Mother apologized to Father.
“I told you we didn't need another child,” Father would retaliate. “If not for that reason.”
I couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment and failure. I would return to my room and cry myself to sleep.A part of me would start resenting my older brother. But Brian…
“You don't have to listen to Mom and Dad?” he asked as he sat next to me after I had spent most of the day crying.
“But they're right,” I insisted. “I'm a failure.”
“Can I see your report card?” he asked.
I wiped the tears away from my eyes and handed them over to him.
“Hmm…” He turned the report card to me. “How is this failure?”
“They are all Cs and Bs, with a D,” I answered, wondering if he didn't see what I saw.
“Back in my day, E and F were considered as failures,” he said as he looked at the card again. “Have they changed things?”
“No, they haven't,” I snatched the card away from him and threw it away., “You wouldn't understand. The teachers talk about how you never got a B or anything less than an A. You were always A+.”
“I just tried to study,” he defended.
“Don't patronize me,” I frowned. “Mom said you were born a genius.”
He was quiet; my statement visibly hurt his eyes.
“Can I show you something?” he asked as he got down from my bed.
I was skeptical, but I followed him anyway. He led me to his room.
“Dad said I shouldn't go into your room,” I reminded him.
“This is my room, not Dad's,” he clarified with a smile as he opened the door.
It was my first time being in his room, and I was only eight. It was a room almost similar to mine but with many awards decorating the walls.
“Did you call me to gloat?” I said.
“Simmer down, little brother,” he responded, then started coughing.
It was a dry cough. I could tell that there was something wrong.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, I'm good. Just allergies.” He sighed and showed me a handmade book titled “For Philbert Johan”.
“What's this?” I asked.
“Everyone learns at different paces,” he responded. “There are people like me who learn fast. Then there are those like you who need a little help. That book will help you for this grade.”
He gave me three more books. “That will cover the next three.”
“You didn't have to…”
“We're siblings. We have to look out for each other,” he cut me off. “I'm sorry Mom and Dad are treating you this way because of me. I hope you can forgive me, with these at least.”
