Baby Brother

I hated my baby brother when he was born. I tried to ignore him. I unhooked the safety pins on his diapers hoping he’d get hurt. I ran away from him after he could walk well enough to follow me around.

My baby brother is 63 years old now. I no longer hate him. I must depend on him. He does all the things I cannot do. He mows my lawn, cleans out the gutters, moves the couch. He brings his wife on days I need my laundry done. So now, I simply resent him. It’s . . .

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