Resentment - #AtoZChallenge

I wasn't too sad when my little brother left home. It was typical, you know? Just another "whatever" moment. Theoretically, I should have been pissed. He asked Dad for his inheritance - can you imagine? Our living, thriving father? - and just took off with his share. But honestly, I always did most of the work anyway. It made little difference to my life that he was gone.

It was just the nerve, you know?

Did it bug me that our father went ahead and gave him his part of our inheritance? Sure, a bit. What was that about? But then again, now if I work hard and the income builds for the family, that's more for me in the end, right? Baby bro' skedaddled - he's out! So, fine. I can work with that.

And I did. I worked hard. "Yes, father," "Of course, father," "Not a problem at all" when it was really a huge annoyance, but I could manage it anyway. We're doing great. Dad, me, the staff. He's getting older, slower, and leaves a lot of the decisions up to me. It's good. As it should be.

Now, years after running off and living god-knows-where doing god-knows-what horrible things, he - again with the nerve! - he's coming back? I heard rumors in town yesterday that he'd been seen on the road heading this way. He wouldn't dare.

...

Next day, I'm walking back in from the fields and even from a distance I can see excessive activity near the house. "What's going on?" I wonder aloud to the field hand with me. He shrugs. We'd both been out in the fields since dawn. He knew as much as I did.

A little closer we can see clear evidence that one of the fattened calves has been slaughtered. A feast? But why? And as we emerge around to the front of the house, I can see neighbors arriving. There stands Dad and... no. Couldn't be. He's back? He really did it? And Dad stands there with his arm around my kid brother - this virtual stranger, a man I can barely recognize, greeting our friends and neighbors as if we should all celebrate him for squandering Dad's money?

No. Just... no. I turn on my heel and head off to the wood-working shed. I won't be a part of this. I am not going to celebrate. 

In the years since he left, I've taken whatever spare minutes I can find to practice wood carving and building. The woodworking shed is my haven. It's become my favorite hobby, and I'm good at it - furniture, artistic work, whatever anyone needs. Being in here, with the smell of sawdust and wood shavings, I can lose myself in my work. That is all I need right now. Maybe the scene outside will fade and disappear.

Dad must have seen me turn in here. It doesn't take long for him to arrive. "Son? Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Your brother's back."

Focused on the chair I was sanding, I answered, "My brother is dead." But it wasn't enough. I stood, looked my father in the eye and said, "He left me behind to do everything for you! You never once gave me so much as a goat to have a party. And now? You celebrate him with a whole calf?!" I was fuming.

My father nodded, then picked up a doll I'd been working on for a friend. Rolling it in his hands, he said, "You could have anything you want. All you had to do was ask." He put the doll back and looked at me. "Don't you see? Your brother - who, yes, was dead to us - is alive! He's back with us. I must celebrate. I hope you will, too." He turned and left.

Naturally. Of course Dad would celebrate. I picked up my plane and smoothed it over some planks held together on my workbench. Hunger after a long day's work was growing in my belly, but I could at least finish this piece. Eventually, though, my baser instincts took over. "No point in starving," I muttered as I closed the woodshed and headed up to the house.

I tried to slip into the feast unobtrusively, just to grab a bite, but my brother saw me and tore across the hall, weaving through people to get to me. Here it was. My chance to tell him off.

Before I could speak he was on me. "Brother! I'm so, so, sorry!" were his first words as he wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. I was dumbfounded. My arms hung limp at my sides. A hug? Was this all an act? What was he playing at? But then I could feel him shaking and hear a sob gasp from him. "I've been a fool," he moaned into my shoulder, now wet with his tears. I put my hands on his back, returning the hug in a fashion. He leaned back from me and looked me in the eyes. There was no mistaking the contrition on his face. "Can you ever forgive me?" Still unable to speak, I felt my head involuntarily give a tiny nod, and he slid to my side. "Come, sit by me and tell me everything. I'm here to pull my weight."

Makes one wonder what happened to him in those intervening years. Only time will tell if the change will last, but for now, I guess I should get used to having my brother back.

Reference: The parable of the prodigal son is told in the book of  Luke, chapter 15, verses 11-32. I always wonder about the older brother  - it could go so many ways. The story is written focused on the younger brother and the father, with the older brother's negative reaction told at the end in verses 25-32. How would you feel in this situation? What if you were the younger brother?