70 - Living Side by Side with Resentment

I left my country twenty‑five years ago, 

to a place where I knew nobody, 

and nobody knew me.

I told my family it was for a good reason

to learn skills, 

to make a living, 

to support them. 

But beneath those words was a quieter truth

I wanted to escape. 

Escape the burden at home, 

escape the weight of responsibility that had already begun to press against me.

My brother was ten years younger. 

Still a child, 

still clinging to the idea that I would always be there.

He cried when I left. 

He asked when I was coming back. 

I told him soon. 

But soon never came. 

I seldom flew home. 

I seldom called. 

I let silence stand in for presence.

I thought I had freed myself. 

But what I had done was neglect. 

I lived like any reckless adolescent

parties, 

drinking, 

pretending the world was mine alone. 

I told myself it was my life, 

that nobody else mattered. 

But back home, 

he was only six. 

And to him, my absence must have looked like desertion. 

I don’t blame him. 

Because it was partly true.

Years later, 

when he tried to end it, 

I appeared again. 

I stopped him from seeking peace. 

And in doing so, 

I bound myself to him once more. 

But this time, 

I lived side by side with resentment.

It was like a payback for the years I left him to suffer alone. 

His anger was not loud, 

but it was constant

a shadow in the room, 

a weight in the air. 

And I could not fight it back, 

because I knew I deserved it.

Resentment became my companion. 

It sat at the table, 

stood in the doorway, 

watched me pour every cup. 

It reminded me of what I had done, 

and what I had failed to do.

Nowadays, 

that resentment has softened. 

Time has blurred its edges. 

But it has not disappeared. 

Every now and then, it returns

like a ghost tapping my shoulder, 

like a whisper in the quiet hours, 

like a mirror I cannot turn away from.

It reminds me that escape was never freedom. 

It reminds me that neglect leaves a mark that no apology can erase. 

And it reminds me that love, 

when delayed, 

can curdle into something darker.

I live with that echo still. 

Not loud, 

not constant, 

but present

a reminder that the past does not vanish. 

It lingers, 

like resentment itself, 

waiting for me in the silence.