In April of 1952, my younger brother, Alan, came into the family. I was five and a half. I wasn't a very happy camper about having this new little person usurp my place in the family. In fact, I confess. I was very jealous. I didn't like the idea that he was requiring my mother's attention and in general had upset my little world.
I'm not proud of the fact that I was very mean to my brother. I remember that there were times when I would dig my fingernails into his arm, sometimes hard enough that it bled. When I was related this to my husband recently, he asked me if my parents ever did anything about my behavior towards Alan. I told him that I don't really remember. They must have disciplined me in some way. But it took a long time for those feelings of jealousy to go away.
For most of my adult life, I've regretted the way I treated my brother. This is not only my confession of bad behavior, but my public apology to Alan. So, Al, if you are reading this blog. I'm sorry.
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