My little brother and I never got along. We fought constantly—screaming, hitting, and saying things no siblings should. He was my mother’s favorite, and though I’d like to think I was my father’s, he wasn’t in the picture. My parents divorced when we were very young, and I don’t remember my dad at all. It was just the three of us, and anytime my brother and I clashed, my mother would always beat me. She never touched him. I was convinced she hated me.

One day, when I was seven, I finally asked her why I was always the one punished. She replied, “Because you’re older. I expect you to know better.” But I didn’t believe her—I was sure she despised me. Then came the day everything changed. We were invited to Sally’s house, which had a pool. I was so excited. I didn’t know how to swim, but I couldn’t wait to go. As I was leaving, my brother started whining that he wanted to come along. I tried to ignore him, desperate for a day away from him, but my mother insisted I take him. Reluctantly, I agreed.

Sally’s house was a dream. There were no adults except for a busy house help. My brother and I decided to have a swimming competition—who could stay underwater the longest? Neither of us knew how to swim, but that didn’t stop us. We jumped in. After a while, I started suffocating and had to get out. I told my brother he’d won, but he stayed in the water. Hours later, I returned to tell him the game was over. He was still there. I told the house help, who ran to the pool, pulled him out, and tried to revive him. She screamed for help.

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It hit me like a tidal wave: my brother was in trouble. He was rushed to the hospital, and I had to recount what had happened over and over—to the house help, to the hospital staff, and eventually, to my mother. I’ll never forget that night. My mother wailed like her heart was being ripped apart. She slapped me repeatedly and had to be restrained. Her pain was overwhelming, and I felt I deserved every blow.

After that, my mother stopped speaking to me altogether. My uncle and aunt moved in to help, but my attempts to talk to her were met with silence. Now, as a woman in my 30s with two children of my own, I understand the depth of her pain and why she couldn’t forgive me. Losing a child is unimaginable, and though I was just a child myself, I watched my brother die. I wish I could rewrite that day, erase that game, or choose not to go to Sally’s house. But the past is unchangeable.

Mother’s silence has been my lifelong punishment, and though I yearn for her forgiveness, I don’t expect it. I understand her grief now, and I carry my guilt like a scar I’ll never shed.