my brother ricardo he has lost his mind a bit and does things he shouldn’t. Shows up, for example, at home unannounced to repeat a joke that he and the rest of my brothers played on me when we were little: that I was adopted. I was not offended because I always wanted to be adopted. I had the fantasy of actually being the son of some Swedish millionaires who sooner or later would come to rescue me from the situation I had fallen into. I’m still waiting for you. Nevertheless, pretended to suffer because it was the answer that the others longed for. I have spent my life reacting as others expected of me, so as not to disappoint them. I’m terrified of disappointing, I don’t know why maybe i really am a metaphysical adoptee and I’m afraid that from one moment to the next they’ll throw me out on the street. I understand by metaphysical adopted the one who is out of place everywhere. I behave well wherever I go so they don’t notice.
But the thing about my brother Ricardo had started to bother me, so I invited him in, offered him a coffee, and then said:
I know I’m adopted. I have always suspected it, but it is also that dad confessed to me on his deathbed.
Ricardo was puzzled. I didn’t expect such a civilized reaction on my part.
-But it was a joke, man! he exclaimed.
-As a joke, nothing. I already told you that dad confessed it to me shortly before he died. He also told me that I was, paradoxically, the son who had given him the most satisfaction.
Did he tell you anything about me? he asked restlessly.
No, he didn’t tell me about anyone else.
Ricardo drank his coffee and asked if he could stay the night. I told him no, that we had the guest room occupied and that his wife was waiting for him at home.
-My wife? she asked.
Sometimes he forgets that he is married and I have to update him on his situation. As we said goodbye, already at the door of the house, he asked me if I knew who my real parents were.
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“The founders of Ikea,” I replied.
“Yeah,” he said. Something sounds to me from having heard it at home.