![]() I went to bed that night angry with my dad, who had been dead for 17 years, and angry at myself, for my own cowardice and cruelty. “I can’t say I have a clear picture of the man.” I tried to fill in the gaps: “Whip-smart. “I think we looked similar as little ones,” Ryan said. Hair, reddish like mine, peeking from under a cap. He sent me back a photo: a baby in blue velvet with a four-toothed smile and an upturned nose. ![]() I sent it, feeling obliged to fulfil Ryan’s one, small request. Here he is helping me blow out my birthday candles. I wondered if it would all be too painful. I built an album: pictures of my dad, me and my sisters, my kids – Ryan’s nephews. What would I do if their father chose not to be involved in their lives? I don’t know what you looked like or did.” That night, I couldn’t stop wondering about Ryan’s childhood. It was surprisingly easy to talk, even if there was one subject we were avoiding: the man who linked us to one another.įinally, from him: “I would love to hear any stories you have to share and pictures would be great too. The next morning, a text: “If you come to Texas on tour, I will need to get a copy.” We texted about my sisters, his job, the climates in Texas and Los Angeles. One in which the brother is vindicated by the callousness of the family that rejected him. “But flight school? Incredible.” I included my phone number and went to bed, aware of what I didn’t say: that my book was a kind of apology, a story in which a deranged and grieving young woman uses social media to reach out to her long-lost brother. “My novel comes out in early January,” I wrote back. What are your plans for the future? Are there any questions that I can answer?” I’m in flight school for the navy now after some time in the corporate world. Then in September 2023, a message appeared: “How are you? I saw that you wrote a book. ‘My sisters and I spoke of Ryan as “the boy” or “Dad’s son”. I could see him looking and he could see me. And for almost 10 years, we watched each other on our screens, getting only the facts – job histories, current locations, and one photo each. I sent him a friend request one night when I was drunk and he accepted. I knew because of LinkedIn, the chilliest, most distant form of social media. Ryan graduated from college, joined the military, and started flying planes. I went to grad school, moved to New York, and started teaching. ![]() I could feel him – my phantom limb – as we marched in lockstep towards adulthood, as we moved from our teens into our 20s. One sister to another, relaying what little information we had about “the boy” or “Dad’s son”. My sisters found out on their own, of course, and in the years after his death, we spoke of Ryan in whispers. Looking back, I don’t know how to explain or excuse my response, other than to say that once I understood our time together was limited, everything felt like a threat. “He’s not your family though, right?” My dad nodded, and I hugged him, avoiding the wound on his chest. Early in my relationship with your mum,” he replied.
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