not your fault

He rings early. It's not a call I'm expecting.

"Not your fault," my brother says into the still-dark dawn.

When I say nothing, Eric continues with--"What I did was wrong. I'm sorry."

His voice sounds somber, chastened. Full of regret. Not his usual bombastic self.

Still I say nothing, as I'm not sure what's expected. Do I say--Yes, you're right, it was wrong, abusive. Or do I ask--why did you do it--take advantage of Mom--why did you put us through all of this?

"I'm going to resign," he adds. "I'll sign the paperwork."

While I'm relieved, I can't help but reflect that all of this comes too late. He's played his hand. I know what's there beneath his full-bearded cheeks, his ever-sunny tan, his Ray Bans (always omnipresent) and his skin-head skull cap. I've seen it, and there's no forgetting this. No going back.

I've never felt so alone.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--