I can't believe Dad has turned his back on him.
After all we've been through, all we have experienced together, pulled each other through. Lived through, and very nearly died for.
Family.
Our family.
I'm seething. No, I'm beyond seething. I'm shaking with anger, disgust, disbelief. A red mist has enshrouded me, and it's choking.
I lean forward into his personal space, making sure our eyes engage. For what I'm about to say he needs to hear. Not just the words, but the emotion.
"He's still my brother." The statement is flat, monotone, but underscored with raw hurt. I lean closer, so only he can hear. I'm promising him my next words will haunt him to the core.
"He's still my brother, even if he's not your son."