My beloved little brother, who, incidentally, came out of another mother’s stomach | Opinion
We were standing in the front yard of the house we all lived in on F Street in Modesto. My little brother had just arrived. Brand new, born on January 20, 1944, at Robertson Hospital in Modesto. He was the 11th child in this sprawling group — now eight boys, three girls — being raised by two single women: my Aunt Dolores and my mother.
My closest cousin, confidant and instructor in all the important questions of life was Cherrill. I was two when Pete was born; she, six years older.
On that cold January day when my little brother Pete joined the family, Cherrill was answering a question I had not asked: “He’s not your real brother because he didn’t come out of your mother’s stomach.” I had no idea what she was talking about, and she seemed not the least bit concerned about my lack of comprehension.
Cherrill, being the authority on all things, largely formed my outlook on the world. From her, I learned that goodness comes in many dissimilar packages — one of the best being a beautiful blond-headed, blue-eyed older cousin who never told me that I was stupid or in the way.
I don’t remember asking for any explanation about my little brother’s origins. I just adored him. In some small way, he was mine. All mine. I watched over him, soothed him when he cried, brought toys to him, and took him outside to play as soon as he could walk.
Since Pete was the only child younger than I was, I was the boss, commander-in-chief and self-proclaimed leader in whatever games I invented for the two of us. That was heady stuff. I finally had my own minion. But Pete was not a “mini-me,” he was much more interesting than that.
But where did he come from if not “out of my mother’s stomach?”
Pete’s birth mother’s name was Dorothy. She was a friend of Mother and Aunt Dolores and a frequent visitor to our home on F Street. Soon after Pete was born, Dorothy asked my mother to babysit. She dropped Pete off one day and never came back — to my astonished delight.
Throughout our lives together, Pete and I were besties. No effort involved. We played together as young children, read stories to each other, adopted stray kittens and explored the big world beyond our doorstep while holding fast to each other for ballast, knowing that we were safe in each other’s company. Always.
Pete was never told that he was adopted, but (as is not unusual), he “knew.”
A chance comment by our minister when Pete was 15 meant my mother had to tell him the whole story. I was devastated by this development. What would this mean to our relationship?
By this time, our connection was so close that people, not knowing we were siblings, often thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend. This always amused and delighted us.
Shortly after the birth story disclosure, Aunt Dolores located Dorothy. And, to my horror, Pete met his “real” mother, his brothers and — worst of all — his sisters. But I was his sister. His only sister.
I need not have worried. Pete did form relationships with his newly discovered family, but nothing — nothing! — ever supplanted what we had in and with each other.
Pete and me? We were more truly related than any biological data or DNA test could ever prove.
Ours was a heart connection that began with a chance comment in front of that old, ramshackle house on F Street and only grew, as the years went by, into something more and more extraordinary: a true bond that could not be broken by birth stories, by new siblings, or even by death.
Pete died suddenly twenty-five years ago. He was 55. I officiated at his funeral: the last gift I could give my beloved little brother who, incidentally, came out of some other mother’s stomach.