I was fifty-eight when I found out I had a brother, just before my mother died a a decade ago. He is five years older than me, and today is his birthday. I woke up this morning and wept with gladness that I have a brother. “My brother Pete.” I say the words “my brother” now, and realize that it took fifty-eight years to utter them together. I have two sisters, and “my sisters” has come out of my mouth more times than I can possibly imagine, but “my brother” has been said by me one hundred and fifty-nine times a year after finding out. I like that the number can only go up, and each time it does, I feel he has a larger place in my life.