The Son I Chose
The first time I held my nephew, he was three days old and screaming like his lungs might burst. My sister Carmen had thrust him into my arms with all the grace of someone passing off a ticking bomb, muttering something about needing fresh air and disappearing through the hospital room door.
I looked down at this tiny, furious human – all red face and clenched fists – and felt something shift in my chest. Maybe it was the way his crying stopped the moment I held him, or how his impossibly small fingers curled around mine. Whatever it was, I knew in that moment that this baby was going to change my life.
I just didn’t know how completely.
Carmen was twenty-three then, five years younger than me, and had always been the wild child in our family. While I’d been the responsible one – studying hard, working two jobs to put myself through college, building a careful, stable life – Carmen had been the one sneaking out windows, coming home drunk at seventeen, dropping out of community college to chase whatever boy or dream had captured her attention that week.
