I met my little brother when I was eight and he was four – our first encounter since the day of his birth. Due to family circumstances, my brother had been left in Korea with my grandmother until my parents and I had settled in the U.S. We were reunited with him a few months before I started second grade.

My parents had planned a quiet party and invited a few of their close friends and family. I had no idea why we were hosting a celebration, but I accepted the notion wholeheartedly. We were living in Delaware, in a small, homely city the name of which I cannot recall, and even for a hyper-imaginative elementary schooler, there wasn’t much to do.

The party was in a nearby park, with the June sun blazing high in the sky. People straggled in, enthusiastically congratulating my parents, and set plates of food down on worn wooden tables. I made a beeline for the snacks, as I do at any party I attend. At the climax of my glorious face-stuffing, I noticed a yellow cab pull up in my peripheral vision.

I paused and stared, my curiosity sparked.

And then the door opened.

It was an unlikely duo: a wizened old woman with a stern expression holding a small boy by the hand. Despite her age, she walked with a quick, strong gait as she led the struggling child in our direction. I could tell, with the universal gut instinct that animals use to know when to run from a predator, that she was not to be tussled with.

People immediately congregated around them, with my parents in the lead. My mom started to cry, which piqued my attention and an unpleasant feeling of confusion. Just as I had resolved to make my way over there, the crowd suddenly went quiet. My dad beckoned for me to come closer.

With a sense of dread, I shoved past the unknown faces. I stood by my parents and was faced with the mysterious boy. My mom stooped down and whispered something into my ear.

“What?” I asked, slightly miffed.

“He’s your brother,” she repeated.

Brother? I have a brother? I mouthed the word so as not to be overheard. Its taste was foreign, misconsonnated. It had no place in my life.

I took a closer look at my so-called “brother.” He was small, slightly pudgy, and slightly red in the face. His eyes were the same color as mine but were currently wrinkled in frustration, no doubt due to the incessant doting and coddling of adults. His right hand grasped my grandmother’s; in his left, a blue popsicle dripped slowly. The tension was palpable, the intent crystal clear. My mouth was flooded with a bitter sensation, and the hastily devoured food turned to lead in my stomach.

I refused to meet the little boy’s eye. My mother leaned forward, asking me to speak to him. The bitter taste intensified. She asked again. I said no, that I was too tired, that I didn’t even know him. Her eyes pleaded with me to try. I clenched my fist as I asked him the only thing that came to mind.

“Can I have your popsicle?”

The adults chuckled. 

“NO!” He reiterated, clearly enunciating each syllable, “No, it’s mine.” 

Then he stuck his tongue out at me. 

Fury erupted deep within me. I leapt out. He recoiled, but it was too late. I slammed his popsicle onto the grass with the ferocity of a tiger. His face contorted, but I had yet to deal the final blow. I raised my foot and brought it down as hard as I could. The popsicle collapsed, specks of blue flying. I watched with satisfaction as he burst into tears.

I was brought to my room, chastised by my parents for what seemed like forever, and left staring at the ceiling as the clock ticked on.

Shortly afterwards, awoke to the sound of someone crying. I sat up in bed, still groggy. The crying intensified in volume. Half asleep, I staggered toward it. I headed toward the guest room, the source of the incessant wails, and as I got closer I began to distinguish words.

“I want Mommy!”

It quieted briefly but soon re-escalated, repeating again and again. I was caught off guard. I realized that he was just as bewildered as me, forced apart from someone he had been with his whole life.

With each repetition, the wails melted my heart little by little, and when I eventually returned to my bed, I slept peacefully.

Nowadays, the word “brother” rolls off my tongue as easily as can be.