Bullying, resentment and jealousy between brothers. The brothers often experience feelings of resentment, jealousy and bullying. Psychological harassment attempts against the dignity and moral integrity of the person and produces psychological traumas.

The shadow of the firstborn

The rough wool of my school uniform was felt like a cage. Everything felt like a cage these days. Dad always said: "Ricardo, you are the firstborn. You must give an example." An example for whom? For Alejandro, the golden child, the sun around which our little orbit family?

I know, I know, a good son, a good brother, would not host such dark thoughts. But try to live in my shoes. Try to be constantly compared, found constantly wanting. Alejandro was two years younger, but it was already taller, faster, naturally endowed for everything he touched. I could draw horses that seemed to jump from the page. I could enchant grandmother Estela with a single smile. I even managed to make Papa laugh, with a feat that he had not achieved since it was small enough to ride on his shoulders.

My talent? It was good in mathematics. It could memorize historical dates. But those were not things that obtained praise, not potato. "Ricardo, you are intelligent," he said, his voice lacked the warmth he reserved for Alejandro. "But you must also be ... ingenious, like your brother."

Witty. What he wanted to say was charismatic, popular, the type of child who gathered without effort friends and favors. I was none of those things. I was quiet, inward, a little clumsy. And Alejandro, bless his sweet heart (I mocked internally), I knew.

The intimidation began subtly. A missing task placed in my backpack. A rumor whispered on my bed (a lie, a cruel and vicious lie). My favorite toy soldier, his head mysteriously lacked. Each incident was small, dispensed, but they splinter me, eroding my trust, feeding my resentment.

The worst part was plausible denial. If I complained, Mom sighed: "Ricardo, children are children. Alejandro looks at you. Don't be so sensitive." Dad would simply say: "Are you sure you are not wrong? Alejandro wouldn't do such a thing."

They couldn't see it. They didn't want to see it. Alejandro was the incarnation of his hopes and dreams, a bright lighthouse. Ricardo was just. The shadow of the firstborn.

One afternoon, after Alejandro had "accidentally" spilled painting in all my carefully elaborate history project (a diorama of the battle of Puebla), I finally broke. I pushed him against the wall, my little fists pressed. "Because?" I shouted, tears erasing my vision. "Why do you always do this to me?"

Alejandro's eyes opened, genuinely innocent. "What, Ricardo? I stumbled!" He began to cry, strong and dramatic sobs that led mom to run.

The punishment that followed was fast and hard. Punished for a week. There is no TV set. And the overwhelming weight of disappointment in potato eyes. "Ricardo," he said, his low and disappointed voice, "a brother should protect his younger brother, not attack him."

That was the day I learned that in our family, Alejandro was always right. That was the day the resentment hardened in something colder, somewhat darker. That was the day I really began to hate him.

I loved Ricardo. I really did. It was my older brother, my hero. I knew all the answers in class, I could build the most incredible Lego castles, and I always let me have the last cookie.

But sometimes ... sometimes I felt that he didn't like it very much. It always seemed so ... sad. And when he tried to talk to him, he simply shrug and moved away.

I didn't want to make it angry. Simply ... it happened. As with painting. He had been trying to help him with his diorama, adding some extra style. But I accidentally hit the paint pot. It was a mistake! But Ricardo simply exploded.

And the other things ... the missing task, the toy soldier ... sometimes he just wanted to get his attention. I wanted me to play with me, to notice me. I knew it wasn't as good at school as he, but it was good in other things! I could make it laugh, I could tell stories. But he never seemed interested.

Mom and dad always praised me, it was true. But sometimes it bothered me. He felt as if they were comparing us, and Ricardo was always left short. I didn't want to be better than him. He just wanted to be his brother.

After the painting incident, when Ricardo pushed me, I was afraid. But I was also injured. It never used to be like that. I used to be very friendly, so patient. What had changed? 

I cried, not only because I was afraid, but because I was losing my brother. I saw the disappointment in potatoes when he scolded Ricardo, and felt a guilt stab. It was my fault. I was the reason for his anger of his sadness.

That night, I got into Ricardo's room. He was lying on the bed, looking at the roof. I sat next to him.

"Ricardo?" I whispered.

He did not respond.

"Sorry," I said. "About painting. Especially."

He still did not respond.

"I just want us to be friends again," I continued, my cracked voice. "I miss you."

He finally turned his head, red and swollen eyes. "Don't mean that," he said, coldly. "You just want dad to be happy. You just want to be the good child."

And then he turned again, leaving me alone in the dark. I returned to my room, my heavy heart. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was just trying to be the good child. But deep down, everything I really wanted was my brother back.

He was exhausting, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of the rivalry between brothers. I loved my two children, but they were very different, so ... incompatible. Ricardo, my serious and reflective child, struggled to find his place in a world that seemed to reward extroversion and charm. And Alejandro, so brilliant and sunny, always seemed to inadvertently eclipse his older brother.

He knew, deep down, that Alejandro was not always as innocent as it seemed. I saw the small excavations, the subtle provocations. But I also saw the genuine affection he felt for Ricardo, the desperate yearning for his approval.

And Ricardo ... I saw his pain, his resentment, his growing bitterness. But I didn't know how to help him. Every time he tried to intervene, media, he only seemed to get worse.

My husband, Miguel, did not understand. He saw the world in black and white. Alejandro was the golden boy, Ricardo was ... well, Ricardo needed to work more. He needed to be more like his brother.

I tried to explain to Miguel that the comparisons were poison, that they were feeding the fire of resentment. But he didn't listen. He was blinded by his own expectations, his own dreams for his children.

I felt trapped, caught between two children who slowly broke down. I tried to show Ricardo that he loved him, that he valued his intelligence and his sensitivity. But it was never enough. He always saw the preferential treatment he gave to Alejandro, the way Miguel's face illuminated when Alejandro entered the room.

He knew we were failing our children. He was failing as a mother, as a wife. I was seeing my family crumble and I didn't know how to stop him. The fault was a constant weight in my chest, an opaque pain that never disappeared. I started having headaches, insomnia nights full of anxiety.

One night, after another discussion among the children, I broke. I sat in the kitchen, sobbing without control. Miguel entered, his face recorded with concern.

"What's up, Isabella?" He asked, his unusually gentle voice.

"I can't do this anymore, Miguel," I drowned. "I can't see them destroy. We have to do something. We have to get help."

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and sadness. Finally, he nodded. "You're right," he said. "We need help."

That was the first step. The first crack on the wall of denial that had been built around our family. It was a small step, but it was a step in the right direction. I just expected it to be too late.

I will admit it. I favored Alejandro. It was all I expected in a child: lovely, athletic, ingenious. He had the type of charism that opened all the doors, possessed the type of impulse that led to success.

Ricardo ... Ricardo was different. It was intelligent, yes, but it lacked ... spark. It was quiet, reserved, uncomfortable in social situations. I worried about him. I worried that I could not navigate the challenges of the world.

I thought I was motivating him, pushing him to be better, to be more like his brother. I thought I was helping by establishing Alejandro as an example. But I was wrong. 

Isabella tried to let me know. She tried to explain the damage she was doing, the resentment she was feeding. But I didn't hear. I was too concentrated in my own expectations, my own desires for my children.

I saw the arguments, disputes, the occasional physical fight. I discarded them as rivalry between brothers. I told them that "man", that "they solve it." I did not realize the depth of pain, the intensity of hatred that was brewing between them.

Isabella's breakdown was a attention call. I saw the despair in his eyes, the exhaustion on his face. She was right. We were failing. And it was my fault.

We start family therapy. It was uncomfortable at the beginning. Ricardo was withdrawn, Alejandro was on the defensive. I struggled to articulate my feelings, to admit my mistakes.

But slowly, gradually, things began to change. We learned to communicate, listen, empathize. Ricardo began to open about his feelings of insufficiency, his resentment towards Alejandro. Alejandro admitted his own insecurities, his desperate need for Ricardo's approval.

I realized that I had been projecting my own insecurities in my children. I had been trying to mold them in my own ideal, instead of accepting them for what they were.

It was not easy. There were setbacks, regressions, moments of intense conflict. But we continue in that. We learned to celebrate their individual strengths, to support their individual needs.

The healing process was long and hard. But finally, hatred began to dissipate, replaced by something similar to understanding, something similar to forgiveness. The shadow of the firstborn began to fade, replaced by the light of acceptance and love.

Looking back, I can see the tragedy in its entirety. Little jealousy, hurtful words, the years of resentment. Everything was so unnecessary.

Alejandro and I are not better friends. We are not those brothers who are called every day and we finish the phrases of the other. But we are ... well. We have reached a truce, a reluctant acceptance of the defects and strengths of others.

The therapy helped. Years of therapy. He forced me to face my own demons, to recognize my own contribution to the toxic dynamics that had affected our family for so long.

I learned that Alejandro was not trying to hurt myself. I was trying to connect with me, to impress me. He simply did it in the wrong way. And I, in my own wounded pride, refused to see him.

I also learned to forgive my parents. They were not perfect. They made mistakes. But they loved us in their own way, and finally they did what they thought it was better.

I still have the scars of my childhood. The feelings of insufficiency, the fear of being compared, the persistent resentment. But they don't define me anymore. I learned to handle them, to accept them as part of my story.

Alejandro is now married, with two beautiful children. I am his uncle, his uncle Ricardo. I try to be a good uncle, a support uncle. I try to teach them the lessons that I learned in the difficult way: the importance of empathy, the power of forgiveness, the durable bond of the family.

The shadow of the firstborn still persists, but it is no longer the darkness that consumes everything that once was. It is just a shadow, a reminder of the past, a testimony of the durable power of hope and healing. And sometimes, when I look at my niece and my nephew, I do not see the ghosts of our past, but the promise of a brighter future, a future in which the rivalry between brothers does not have to mean resentment and harassment but can be a source of strength, support and unconditional love. The work continues, the repair never really ends, but the address is finally correct. 

By Carlos del Puente relatos