This one's to you. You may get your standing ovation after all.

You know all those stories you hear about those awesome fishing and camping and overall bonding trips nieces and nephews have with their uncle? How their uncles were like their second Dad, how they were always there to lend an ear and reminisce with?

Yeah, I never had that, and maybe you didn't either. If so, this one's for you too.

You couldn't stand me from the moment I came into this world kicking and screaming, and guess what? I'm still here, still kicking and screaming—I just have a wider array of vocabulary now. You utterly and completely despised my father and that's OK, sometimes I did, too. You constantly berated my mother on her lacking parental skills and ineffectiveness to juggle the burdens of three kids, a full-time job at the local factory, and college (remember, this is your definition of her, not mine). For crying out loud, you literally told me at my brother's high school graduation, which was a feat in and of itself, that you couldn't stand being around me while I was growing up—mind you I was 16 at the time.

So trust me, what came next really shouldn't have been a surprise to me. Are you ready for it? Because I wasn't.

You blamed me for the death of my mother.

Yeah, here is where you take that aforementioned standing ovation.

I forgive you, some days more than others, but trust me when I say that I will never forget those words that came out tumbling out of your mouth like venom, searing every tie we ever did or could or would have thereafter.

You stood there and told me that I caused her to do the unthinkable. That all she did was despise me and rant and rave about me. You told me that all I was was this malicious thorn in her side and that she couldn't do it anymore with me by her side. I stood there, I held every bit of instinct I had to rip your throat out and calming told you to promptly, "Go to Hell." And for that your retort was that I wasn't a good enough Christian in your eyes.

You never knew this ____, don't worry, I'll spare you your name, but this is my side.

At 11 years old, I asked my dad why he hurt my mom. At 13 years old, I kept my younger sister and older brother at bay while she studied for her final exams. In March of that year, I sat next to her, with screws in her head, as they prepped her for her first brain surgery. After that when her hair began to fall out, I woke up one night to the sound of an electric razor all too alive in the middle of the night. I paced my way downstairs to find her in the bathroom, alone, surrounded by a mess of tears and tattered hair. I held her almost bald head in my hand and dutifully poised the razor in the other to catch the remaining wisps. At 14, I told my mom she was still the most beautiful mother ever, that she didn't need hair to embody her beauty. In high school, I would leave my job or call in sick when she had seizures without a second thought. There wasn't much anyone could do, so I would just sit on her bed with her for hours on end and soothe her pain away the best I could.

Throughout the next years, I was a brat; I acted out against my best friend more than I'd like to admit. After every fight, though, we would find ourselves at the other's door, with tears in eyes and an apology on the tip of our lips. I told her "I love you" after every phone call, no matter if it was after a two hour marathon phone session or even after a quick 20 second grocery list one. I never missed a chance. When my stepdad told us he wanted a divorce I put my job on hold and stayed at home for a week. I slept with her in bed every night so she wouldn't have to be so alone. I privately dealt with her first known suicide attempt and took her to her parents' home to recuperate. I told her I would take loans out in my name so that she might be able to get a place of her own. I looked up apartments nearby for her to move into; I urged her to move to the same town as I so we could spend more time than ever together.

Alas sir, you have no right to tell me I did this to my mother. Some people are born with less ties to this world than others, and some are born with ties too weak to last them until their gray and wrinkly years. Some of us fight more of a fight in a matter of five years than some do their entire life.

You are not her brother. You don't get to share half of her DNA. You don't get any say over what my siblings and I do from here on out. You chose to shut me out, and that is OK, I just hope you have a good reason for your words when the Lord asks you why.