Promises.

Less than a month ago, I made a long-overdue amend to my only sibling, my younger brother.  At the end of my heartfelt regret for being absent for the majority of his 31-year marriage to the same good woman, the birth, raising, and coming of age of my only nephew, I asked my brother if he had anything he wanted to say to me. Tearfully, he supplied a few of the missing puzzle pieces. He told me how much I'd hurt him when, at 17 years old, I bolted from that dysfunctional, family-of-four as soon as my college acceptance letter drifted in. Truth be told, I hadn't thought twice about my brother's welfare back then. It never occurred to me that my brother (and certainly my mother) needed rescuing from my abusive, alcoholic father. All I knew was that I had to save myself. Ironically, I followed in my father's alcoholic footsteps, and only these many years later, blessedly deep into my own recovery, can I finally be present for my brother and my mother. So, I sit here today, in a hospital room in Connecticut, on a chair next to my brother, lovingly standing vigil over my 88-year-old mother, our mother, as she recovers, God willing, from heart failure. I promised my brother a month ago that I'd never leave him again. And today, thanks to a program of recovery, I keep my promises.