My younger brother, David, has always harbored a deep-seated resentment towards me. You might think it stemmed from jealousy, but you’d be wrong. He was the favored child, the golden one. There was never any reason for him to be envious. Our mother indulged his every whim; she cooked his meals, did his laundry, and even tasked me with his schoolwork. I was expected to assist him simply because we were family, a consideration I never received in return. I was a quiet, introverted kid who enjoyed studying, while he was loud and rough, a carbon copy of our dad. This favoritism crowned David the family’s darling, a fact I didn’t mind until his adoration morphed into a weapon against me.
The bullying began subtly. He would tease me about my height and my glasses. Then, it escalated. He’d sneak into my room, read my diary, and report my private thoughts to our mother. When I protested this invasion of privacy, our parents would just laugh it off. “It’s not a big deal,” they’d say. But it was. He nearly broke my glasses, put disgusting things in my food, and once filled my cereal with small stones. Luckily, I found them before they could shatter my teeth. When I told Mom, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “This is how brothers bond,” she’d claim.
Our fights grew uglier. We went to the same school, where he knew I was being tormented by a few other kids. Instead of defending me, he sided with them, cheering them on as they called me names—ugly loser, hairy monkey—and encouraged their physical attacks. During one argument over something so trivial I can no longer recall it, he looked me dead in the eye and told me to kill myself. That one landed like a stone in my gut. I was struggling with my mental health at the time, and to hear my own brother wish me dead was devastating. When I told our mother, she scolded me. “It’s your fault for irritating him,” she said.
The breaking point arrived in high school. In a fit of rage, David tried to set my hair on fire. Unbelievably, our mother defended him, claiming he was “merely playing.” That was when my father, who was usually distant, finally intervened. The gravity of the situation dawned on him, and he threatened to call the police. David was stunned; he had never faced a single consequence for his actions. That evening, Dad came to my room. He admitted he’d been waiting for David to mature, but he was slowly realizing his youngest son was becoming a monster. Hearing this validation from my dad, I broke down and confessed everything David had done over the years.
The next day, Dad spoke to the school principal, and the bullying stopped. He then enrolled me in MMA classes. “You need to man up,” he said, “and stand up for yourself.” A nerdy kid learning to fight seemed laughable, but I was focused. The classes transformed me, physically and mentally.
One afternoon, I caught David stealing the pocket money I had saved for weeks. As he tried to cycle away, I confronted him. “All you can do is run to Daddy,” he taunted. I don’t know what came over me, but I punched him square in the face. He fell backward, stunned. I retrieved my money from his pocket and watched as he started crying, a comical sight. Our mother rushed out and immediately reprimanded me for not being a better role model. When she complained to Dad, he grimly asked for both sides of the story.
“He stole my money,” I said flatly.
“I needed it for a date!” David whined. “As my brother, he should help me!”
My father’s gaze was like ice. “You’re lucky he only punched you,” he told David. “Anyone else would have called the police for theft. You have no right to take what isn’t yours.” David threw a tantrum, but for the first time, Dad’s authority held firm. David screamed how much he hated me and locked himself in his room.
After that, a fragile truce settled over the house. He couldn’t physically harm me anymore, so he resorted to muttering insults like “nerd” under his breath. He’d relay messages through our mother rather than speak to me directly. Dealing with his passive hatred became its own form of torment, and I longed to escape. When I earned a scholarship to my dream university, the relief was immense. David barely acknowledged my achievement. The day I left was the first day of my real life.
University was liberation. I made friends, excelled in my classes, and started to build a life free from the oppressive atmosphere of my childhood. During my second year, I met Karen at a party. We clicked instantly. She came from a religious background where having children outside of marriage was frowned upon, so when we discovered she was pregnant in our final year, we decided to marry right after graduation. Our wedding was small but joyful. For that moment, I believed Karen was the love of my life, my one and only.
But our foundation was built on a lie I didn’t yet understand. I would later uncover two instances of infidelity. The first was a years-long, intermittent affair with a married coworker. The second was a brief fling with an ex-boyfriend. Looking back, perhaps I was naive. Each time, after a period of separation, I chose to forgive her. I didn’t want our child raised in a broken home. I told myself the affair with her coworker was a youthful mistake. For four years after her second betrayal, things seemed better. I felt confident we had healed. We were happy, planning our future.
Then, three months ago, my world shattered.
“We need to talk,” Karen said one evening, her tone devoid of emotion. She confessed she’d been having a long-term affair. Then she delivered the final, devastating blow. “And I don’t think our son is yours.”
The words struck me like a physical force. Shock, betrayal, and a nauseating disbelief washed over me. “Why?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling. “Why would you keep this from me?” Her reaction was cold, her answers vague. She seemed detached from the cataclysmic pain she was causing. I pressed her, demanding the truth. Who was the father of the child I had raised as my own?
Finally, she admitted it. “It’s David.”
My mind reeled. She explained that they had become friends after I first introduced them. During a long holiday break she spent with my family, David, who was always cold to me, had been warm and charming to her. She wanted to be accepted by my family, so she tried to bridge the gap between us, including David in our outings. She told me how David had opened up to her about a recent breakup, how vulnerable he was. He flirted with her harmlessly at first, she said, but then things escalated beyond her control.
The image of my wife and my brother together made me physically sick. Karen confessed she felt guilty afterward and abruptly went home, cutting the holiday short. That explained why she had been so adamant about leaving. Two weeks after we returned to college, we found out she was pregnant. She admitted she never knew if the child was mine or David’s. With no way to be sure, she chose to stay with me, the more “dependable” brother. That was why we got married.
“Have you been sleeping with him recently?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
She slowly nodded. Their chemistry, she said, was “undeniable.” They stayed in touch, sneaking off to hotels while lying to me about work trips. Half of her “business trips” were romantic getaways with him.
“Then why did you marry me?” I asked, the question tasting like ash.
“I didn’t want to be the one to break things off,” she said, as if it were a reasonable explanation. “You’re a wonderful father to our son. I made a mistake, and I didn’t know when to stop.”
I told her I was glad she finally told me the truth. Then, I began to pack a bag. She started crying, begging for forgiveness, expecting me to yell. Instead, a cold resolve settled over me. “If you loved me, you’d fight for me!” she cried. “Mistakes happen in every marriage!” When that didn’t work, she tried a different tactic. “Think of our son! He’ll be devastated by a divorce.”
“I might not even be his father,” I reminded her, the words leaving a bitter trail. I had forgiven her before, but this was a betrayal on a cosmic scale. She had slept with my brother, the man who had tormented my entire childhood. I left her crying on the doorstep and checked into a hotel.
The next day, I went straight to my parents’ house and laid bare the entire sordid affair. My mother, true to form, immediately tried to defend her boy. “David would never do such a thing to his own brother!” she insisted.
“Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Stay quiet. Let’s hear it from him.” I put the phone on speaker and called David, catching him completely off guard. When I confronted him about the affair, he vehemently denied it. But when I told him Karen had confessed everything, his story crumbled.
“It’s not my fault if women are attracted to me!” he spat, blaming Karen entirely. “I’m the better-looking brother.”
“I’m going to expose you to everyone,” I told him calmly.
David mocked me. “No one will believe you. I’m the golden child.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “Thanks for confirming the truth for Mom and Dad.” A sharp silence fell on the other end of the line as David realized his audience. He began to sputter, desperately trying to salvage his image, but it was too late. My mother, finally seeing the truth, was a mixture of shock and fury.
My father, usually so reserved, couldn’t contain his disgust. He took the phone from me. “David,” he began, his voice heavy with disappointment. “What you’ve done is a betrayal of this family. You slept with your brother’s wife and continued the affair for years. Your actions have shattered the trust we had in you. From today, you are cut off. The college funds are gone. Your lifestyle is no longer my responsibility. Let’s see how you manage without my money.”
My dad ended the call, shutting down David’s frantic excuses. In that moment, watching my father finally punish him, I felt the ultimate vindication. Afterward, my mom hugged me, a gesture we hadn’t shared in years. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”
My dad helped me find a lawyer. The divorce was messy. Karen fought for alimony, but her affair weighed heavily against her. We did a paternity test. It confirmed what I already dreaded: David was the father. The news was more painful than the infidelity itself. The son I had loved and raised for years was not mine. He was a living reminder of my brother’s ultimate victory over me. Karen begged me to continue visiting him, but I couldn’t. Seeing him was like seeing David’s face, and I hated it.
Two weeks ago, my dad called to inform me he was changing his will. He was leaving his entire estate—nearly $2 million—to me. David would receive exactly one dollar. My father is a stubborn man; when he cut David out, he meant it. Somehow, David found out. Yesterday, he called me.
He sounded desperate. He was struggling, had been pestering by Karen for child support he couldn’t pay, and was failing his classes. He begged me to talk to our parents, to help him.
I just laughed. “You should have thought about the consequences before you slept with my wife,” I said.
“It was her fault too!” he argued.
“I agree,” I shot back. “And I divorced her. She’s your responsibility now.” He started to raise his voice, but I cut him off. “You’re not the golden child anymore, David. You’re the black sheep who slept with his brother’s wife.”
For the first time since we were small children, I heard my brother cry. He sobbed about how everyone—our grandparents, our relatives—had turned against him. I told him we were done and that he should never call me again. I no longer considered him my brother.
Since then, the conversation has replayed in my mind. Despite my hatred for him, hearing him so helpless stirred something inside me, a flicker of an old, buried connection. It hurt, just a little.
It’s been five months now. My relationship with my parents has improved dramatically. My dad and I go golfing every weekend; he treats me more like a friend than a son. My mother, though she misses David, has kept her distance. My cousin told me David dropped out of college. He’s living with Karen, working as a part-time mechanic, and they’re raising their son together. I was promoted at work, and I’ve started therapy to unpack the wreckage of my past. I haven’t been dating. I still need time to heal. But for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of peace, a quiet freedom that is entirely my own.