Why Not Four?

I wish there were a reason for me to set four placemats on the dinner table. I wish I had memories of childish fights and their bittersweet aftermath. I wish I’d had to put in the extra effort to learn the many words for “sibling” in Chinese class. They say that a triangle is the most stable structure in the world, but ever since I’ve been able to think for myself, I’ve wondered why I couldn’t be blessed with a sibling. Picture a triangle. For almost all of you, the triangle has 60 degrees at each angle with three equal sides. Difficult to break, even more so to tip over. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my seventeen years, though, it’s that nothing is perfect in this world. The triangle is more scalene than equilateral, with points sticking out in odd directions, some further from others. A square, on the other hand, is just that—a square. By definition, it’s uniform; it provides a sense of security that a simple triangle would not.

Funnily enough, most of my friends have envied me for not having to deal with another similarly aged family member my entire life. My ultimate misery to me presented itself as paradise on earth to my peers. All of the family’s attention, all of their resources, all of their hopes, all directed towards you; what could possibly be bad about that? 

What they never saw, however, was me playing game seven of the NBA finals on the mini-hoop hanging on my wardrobe, over and over again, while waiting for my dad to come home and my mom to be free from work. Those moments in which I wished more than anything that there was someone to shoot the ball over, someone to run plays with. I didn’t care if I would’ve had a shot at winning, I just wanted someone on the other side of the ball, someone my size. Naturally, playing catch with my dad or baking brownies with my mom cemented themselves as the highlights of my early years. 

There was always something a little different about it, though. Over time, I got very good at pretending that the “close games” in Madden against my dad were thanks to my laughable skill and not because of his “accidental” interceptions thrown to the heaviest coverage on the field. Because I knew that without pretending, there would be nothing stopping me from wallowing in the what-ifs of having a sibling.

I remember sleeping over at a close friend’s house in sixth grade and having to take great interest in the ceiling as he and his mother kicked his brother out of his room. There was a great deal of animosity between the two brothers as they went to sleep that night, especially since the younger always felt like he got pushed around while the older -- my friend -- felt that this was a rare instance of the household swaying to his will. When I woke up the next morning, however, it was not to the sounds of more anger and frustration. Instead, it was to the sight of those two playing Ark together from the sofa, cooperating to build their base as their depleted identical cereal bowls sat off to the side. I joined them soon after finishing my own breakfast (sorry Mom, I know I said I wouldn’t play video games in the morning that day), and his brother eventually disappeared back into his own room. 

As we got ready to go downstairs and play basketball, though, one bounce of the ball on the apartment floor was enough to act as a summons to the younger brother; he joined us for the next hour as we each strived to prove we were the better 10 or 9-year-old basketball players. I had always wished for a sibling, but leaving my sleepover that day marked the first time I felt a twang of envy against a friend for having a brother. I realised soon after that my childhood was a lie: competition was fake, and I trained myself to be gullible. It did not take me long to figure out that in any physical contest at home against a family member, I’d only win when I was allowed to. And yet, I pretended. Pretended as if I were indeed playing with someone my age, and their mistakes were true. I asked to play these games over and over, knowing full well that the outcome was not really in my hands.

“Two brothers, two years apart,” is my response to the question of how many kids I’d like in the future. Nowadays, it may be controversial to hope for a gender in a baby, but it doesn’t change the fact that those two brothers had an unmistakable impact on how I’ve viewed families since. For years after, I envied those with siblings, especially those similar in age. Soon enough, I will have to make those same decisions about my own family. And if it does all work out, I will do my very best to help them understand how lucky they are to have each other, and to not have to envy those who have what they don’t.