Growing up, my brother and I were never close. He was always the baby, both of the family and of his classmates, and we had little in common. Even now, after we have started developing a relationship of sorts, we still have a hard time getting each other. So, when my brother announced that he already knew what he was going to get me for Christmas this year, I shrugged off the comment, assuming that I would be getting another iTunes gift card, the gift he had been giving me for the past couple of years.
Christmas morning arrived, and I was surprised to find a large, lumpy package with my name scrawled across it in his handwriting. When I opened it, I found three Tintin books— books that he had always loved, and I had, until recently, rarely thought about. Despite never having read any of the brave reporter’s adventures, he and his sidekick held the key to certain fond memories, and as my brother explained why he chose the specific books he gave me, I realised that he understood their significance in my life. I reached over to give him a hug, and, instead of squirming away like he usually does, he let me.