I’m writing this blog to honor my eldest brother, who just celebrated his 72nd birthday two days ago. (Unless he’s been quietly shaving off a year—if so, consider this my gift to you, Kuya Rene, aside from the crinkles that I just baked today.  😄)

 

Earlier on Facebook, I declared him my favorite brother—after my elder brother Raul, who passed away over 35 years ago. That officially puts him in second place on my very exclusive favorite brother list.  Honestly, I was never particularly close to any of my male siblings—no brooding heart-to-hearts or dramatic bonding moments. So what I’m sharing here is a little mix of memory, observation, and gentle guesswork.

 

In his younger days, my brother was rarely home—always out and about with his friends, and constantly on the receiving end of my parents’ scoldings for coming home late. It’s no surprise he married young. Let’s just say his life was never lacking in color or adventure, though I’ll graciously skip over whatever “youthful mischief” may or may not have taken place. 😉 Instead, I’d like to shine a light on something I truly admire about him: his talent for photography and printing. I still remember how proud our mother was whenever she mentioned his top marks in photography—she never missed a chance to boast. That passion eventually shaped his path. After he and his wife, Mita, moved to Chicago over two decades ago, he found his niche working as an Adobe Photoshop artist for a major publishing company.

As mentioned earlier, we were never especially close growing up, but one thing I’ve always known about Rene is the deep affection he had for my other brother, Raul, who passed away from brain cancer many years ago. Rene was profoundly affected by Raul’s illness and eventual passing—it left a quiet ache in him that he rarely spoke of, but you could sense it in his tone whenever Raul’s name came up. That loss stayed with him quietly, hidden beneath his usually tough exterior.

 

Rene is now divorced. His former wife, who suffered a stroke and now lives with Alzheimer’s, is no longer part of his daily life the way she once was. And yet, he continues to show quiet compassion for her. He often says he feels for her situation—and I believe him. His words aren’t just polite gestures; they come from a place of genuine kindness.

 

So even if Rene and I were never the type of siblings to share heart-to-heart talks or deep confessions, I know this about him: he carries a soft heart beneath the surface. And in the end, that says more than words ever could.

 

Happy birthday, Kuya Rene. You may be second in rank, but you're one of a kind.