The Journal

I watched as his face crumpled in shock, as the wetness pooled in his eyes and as the first drop slid down his cheeks. I watched as the first whimper escaped his lips without his permission to mourn for the mother he never got to meet. He—my brother that I never knew of.

Watching him cry was like I was seeing myself when I cried for her for the first time. Not when I was just a newborn and needed my mother to feed me, I was regarding the time when I saw other children crying because their mothers were fussing over them. After gaining my senses and having faced my struggles, I never cried openly for her again. Not even in front of father.

But in that room, where we both shared the same grief of not knowing the one who brought us into this world, I cried. I cried, I wailed, I sobbed, I broke. Maybe it was because now that he knew I was his sister, he wanted to protect me or maybe it was just because he knew how I felt. But either way, he crossed the room and took me in his embrace and s