And then I heard more.
The story told by the younger sister, about how much she adored her older brothers.
About how her oldest brother paid for her piano lessons when her parents
couldn’t afford to. About how he helped her and her fiancé buy a car.
About how much he did for their parents, helping with projects and the
upkeep of their house.
Then about how he married a Canadian girl when he was 31, and hardly ever came home again.
I had heard that story, but it was a different version. It was the story of the Canadian girl
who was not welcome in her fiancé’s home, because she was Canadian, because she came
from a “broken home,” because she wasn’t good enough.
He and the Canadian girl moved to Niagara Falls, had a daughter, then to Oswego and had another.
He didn’t see his family much after that, and as the girls grew up, they were told
that his family didn’t want to see them. They heard that his sister and her husband thought
“they are better than us; they don’t want anything to do with us.” And because the story came from the
girls’ mother, of course they believed it.
They didn’t hear the story about the early lives of the two young boys; they never heard the story
about the piano lessons or the car or other acts of loyalty. These were stories about a man
they never knew, and not the man they recognized as their father. Not the man who yelled
more than spoke, who had no patience with any one in his home. The man who didn’t care who he hurt.
What happened to that man?