I was four, up early on a Sunday morning for cartoons, when I walked into the dining room and found myself ankle-deep in what our dog had left on the carpet runner.
I froze. At four years old, there are problems you can solve and problems that require management.
My brother came in, took one look at me, picked me up, carried me into the bathroom, and lowered my feet into the clean toilet water.
"Kick your feet, David."
So I kicked.
There I was, hanging over the toilet with my little legs splashing around in the bowl while my older brother handled what may have been the first emergency of my life. He didn't make a speech. He didn't scold me for walking straight into it. He simply took care of me.
I am the youngest of four; two sisters came first, then my brother, then me. Being the youngest meant I usually had somebody older nearby, which was both comforting and occasionally dangerous.
My brother could prove both points at once.
We had a big oak tree in the yard, and I remember walking beneath it while acorns mysteriously started raining down on my head. I couldn't see him; I didn't need Sherlock Holmes to solve the case. Somewhere above me was my brother, perfectly content to protect me from the world and a tsunami of dog poo while also trying to improve his aim.
Brothers are complicated like that.
One story took me much longer to understand.
When I was little, I was running across the grass near the city's rec center when an older kid decided to have some fun at my expense. As I was running across the grass, he hit a golf ball that ended up hitting me in my left side.
It came out of nowhere and, to be honest, it didn't feel good. You could accurately say I wasn't happy.
For years, the story ended there.
About 15 years ago, I learned what happened next.
My brother was maybe 10. He heard the older kid laughing about what he'd done to me, walked up to him, and said, "That was my little brother."
Then he hit him.
He got one good punch in before the older kid beat the hell out of him.
My brother never told me.
No dramatic retelling, no lifelong request for gratitude, and no family legend built around his courage. He took the shot, took his beating, and went home.
I didn't even know.
My oldest sister had the same instinct.
When my brother was still in single digits, a neighborhood kid was beating him up. My sister saw it happening, ran a full block while chasing the kid back to his house, grabbed him from inside his house, pulled him outside, and finished the argument herself.
Apparently, our family believed conflict resolution worked best when handled promptly.
We teased each other, we fought, we annoyed one another; nobody floated through childhood wrapped in sentimental music.
Heck, I remember when I was again quite young and was smarting off to that older sister. I remember mouthing off and hearing her ask, "David, do you want to get slapped?"
It's something I regret to this day; before I knew my mouth was open, I heard myself say, "Suuure."
I don't remember much after that.
But a few weeks later, I rescued that same sister from a spider in the bathroom.
Underneath all of it was something I didn't fully appreciate when I was young.
You belonged to us.
If somebody hurt you, somebody else noticed.
If you stepped in something awful, somebody carried you out.
If you walked beneath an oak tree, somebody might drop an acorn on your noggin, but God help the kid down the street who tried the same thing.
My brother has stood up for our family in other ways over the years. So have my sisters. Most of it never came with announcements or applause.
Maybe the deepest family love rarely does.
Sometimes, you immediately see it, and sometimes you learn about it decades later.
By the by, I don't want you to think my other sister was a saint. My brother and I were trading stories about her and the fact she's a maniac. She took me to a county fair once, and while riding on the Ferris wheel, she started rocking the car, leaving me terrified.
After I shared, my brother did too, reminiscing about the time she told my brother he could breathe underwater. So he tried.
The one common denominator? She laughed maniacally.
I hope we all have siblings who look out for us, even when we never know they did.
