Half-brothers
I was 15 when my two siblings and I learned that we had a half-brother. We had seen it coming. Dad’s affair began as far back as our young minds could recall. Somehow, apathy helped us parry the tough blow.
But for our stoic mother, the only thing worse than finding out about the mistress was getting word that Dad had a child outside their marriage. The baby’s birthday a day before hers added insult to injury.
That adultery runs in our blood is something the three of us and our paternal cousins are yet to disprove.
Our grandfather loved four women with whom he had 14 offspring. Oddly, our uncles, perhaps just as unfaithful, tolerated Dad.
Instead of embodying the gallantry for which our ancestors and the people in our province are known (my great-grandfather was general treasurer of Emilio Aguinaldo’s revolutionary government, and two other relatives also took part in the 1898 Philippine Revolution), their proud successors had taken “Kabitenyo” literally, with disastrous repercussions.
No wonder why after I graduated from high school, we accepted our aunt and uncle’s offer for us to move with them to the metro, where we have been living for more than a decade now. Away from Dad, his betrayal and our dysfunctional clan. Or so we thought.
Seven years later, we met our half-brother for the first time. Dad reckoned that bringing him for a short vacation without our consent was a brilliant idea. Much as the uncanny resemblance stunned us, so did Dad’s audacity. Stern-faced and firm, Mom sent them away. My heart sank at seeing them go, side by side, Dad holding the boy by his left hand while his right clutched his backpack.
I felt sorry both for Mom and the boy; neither of them deserved it. I feared it may have painted him a picture of who we’re not. Or scarred him forever.
But they were back months later, in the Christmas season. Mom let them stay and treated them well. My older sister said it was the fruit of the Holy Spirit.
Our conversations were mostly casual, but I got to know the kid despite our short time together. He was like other boys his age—sometimes behaved and polite, and curious and oblivious of the world. He was as competitive as I in parlor games at a church party. He played Tekken on PSP with so much intensity the controller buttons loosened. We last saw him two years ago, when we drove our sister, bound abroad, to the airport.
But it didn’t change the way I felt about him, or our weird setup. At least not instantly.
Our homophonous names irked me. I was also annoyed that we shared a nickname: Den. It sounded forced, because his given name bore no semblance of it. I couldn’t look him in the eye as he reminded me of the woman who tore our family apart.
I was bitter that our home would never be complete again. When we were younger, Dad would visit his woman late at night, no matter how hard we cried and tried to stop him. Me pulling on his leg and my little brother on the other as he reached for the door was a frequent heart-wrenching sight for our Mom.
I was robbed of a father figure growing up. But whatever was lacking, Mom more than made up for it, and way better than a father could ever do.
I was envious of the kid; I would never be as close to Dad as he. Until now it doesn’t add up: My sister and I excelled in school. The three of us had no vices and had a good company of friends. We were children any parent would be proud of. Why were we not enough?
I was angry, and terrified. The kid’s mother was the reason my arguing parents’ loud voices woke me up one night. Mom was throwing Dad out of the house. But when I heard him threaten her with a knife, I quickly came to her rescue and hugged her until I fell asleep, crying.
Still I began to move on from the resentment sooner than I expected. Healing is a continuous process. Forgiveness is not for those who wronged us, but an antidote to the poison we didn’t know was killing us inside. It’s not automatically synonymous with reconciliation. It’s not easy to let bygones be bygones with people who have no remorse for what they did and are blind to the enormity of their sin and the depth of the pain they caused. Being civil is.
I have had my fair share of rejection, of being unwanted and unwelcome, enough for me to realize that another innocent child neglected — and hurting at the hands of his own family — will never bring the peace that has eluded us for more than 20 years.
The circumstances of our birth should not define us and make us any more or less human. Sadly, the same laws that accord children out of wedlock their rights (albeit not equal in terms of inheritance) also label them illegitimate in the first place, a categorical term that makes most of them more marginalized than they already are. If anything, this should apply to the irresponsible parents who beget them.
Children who have no hand in their conception should not be called names. They deserve as much attention and support. They are not a mere consequence of someone else’s “mistake,” for which they pay the price. It’s a relief that we are gradually becoming tolerant of them, but the social stigma remains.
If we think about it, there is logic in an old joke as to what to do if there is an “anak sa labas” (love child, or literally, “a child outside the house”): “Papasukin mo” (Let the child in). Isn’t that, in a way, acceptance? If our instinct tells us to be hospitable to visitors, shouldn’t we be the same to our own kind?
I didn’t know it then but intentionally not lying about the kid as my sibling was exactly the first step I had to take: to acknowledge his existence and that he can never be apart from our lives. I guess finally finding the courage to add him on Facebook is just second. I have come to terms with the idea that he’s going to spend more years with Dad than any of us. When he is old enough, I know he’d understand that our situations were beyond our control.
Ironically, Dad’s absence made our family whole. To his defense, he did provide for us. We love him, but it was not enough to make him stay. That is a bitter pill to swallow.
His infidelity taught us that there is freedom in acceptance. It also showed us the parents we do not want to be and the superwoman Mom is. No mother could probably assume the role of “haligi ng tahanan” better than an engineer who built a home founded on love, raised three kids almost single-handedly, and instilled in them values that no home-wrecker can surmount. Always choosing kindness over pride, Mom would have surely approved of bridging this gap that has haunted us all these years.
To our bunso, it may take some time before I get used to two younger brothers calling me kuya. We know little about each other, but there’s no rush.
For now, we can start with something light and we both love: basketball. With you standing 5’7 at 13, Dad insists it’s only a matter of time before you surpass our height (we will see about that). If you want, we can watch a live PBA game together.
Or how about we celebrate your graduation? You are, after all, our flesh and blood. Our connection transcends our surname and our father.
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Erden Jan D. Legaspi, 26, is a registered nurse and a social health insurance advocate.
