I pulled myself out of a family riven with poverty, addiction, bankruptcy and bad choices. My father died at 40. It was not a surprise to me when my brother, high on something that made him delusional, pulled a gun on a police officer that had pulled him over for speeding. He shot the officer multiple times. The officer survived with multiple debilitating injuries that made him unable to work again. My brother died.

The emotional devastation for my mother has been the hardest thing and my steady presence and support is something I’m proud of. My principal emotional response was extraordinary anger. I’d had multiple conversations with my brother about the dangers of his path that were ignored. I’m angry that he could be so thoughtless about our mother. I hate to say it but after my initial grief, “good riddance” was my response.

Eleven years later the grief is still raw for my mother. She is a vibrant and intelligent woman who was handed a raw deal in life. I’m trying my best to make up for that. I support her and manage her affairs. When I reflect on it my anger at my brother deepens. I don’t let it consume me. I can’t. I’m the sole surviving male in my family.