Disengaged Families

I was checking the obituaries yesterday, both locally and from back home, to make sure my name was not listed. It's something I do on a daily basis. In my hometown newspaper, there it was; my last name in big, bold print. It was my half-brother's obituary. This was a man I had had no contact with in nearly thirty years, but yet, the tears still came. Sure, he and I shared the same father, but there was more in common then more people will ever know; but he and I know. He was the black sheep of my father's first three children; in and out of jail, hell raiser, but a really good guy at heart. He helped me more than once. We shared a bond. He knew he was the outcast of the family, and when my father married my Mom and I came to be, there was talk that my father had married a woman younger than his oldest child. Please understand that this family was made up of devout Catholics who couldn't grasp the fact that my father would marry so soon again. And then, here I was, a child conceived by a fifty year old man; heck. I was soon to be labeled 'my Vickie Marie". Of course, my mother had never had any intention of having another child once she married my father. My father had adopted her son, born out of wedlock, and she was content. And here I come. We grew up playing parental favorites; I was Daddy's little girl, and my brother , according to my mother, was the one to concentrate on. I was told more than once by my Mom that I wasn't supposed to happen. I apologize for the trip down memory lane, but I guess that's why my half-brother and I sort of bonded. He knew what I went through growing up, and I know the same about him. God bless you, Carmen. In spite of all your failings, you'll always be in my heart.