Caroline Brennan

Growing up, my sisters and I would dare each other to run to the mailbox and maybe even raise the flag if we had the nerve to show we were there.

And I know it doesn't sound that thrilling, but this was a no-go zone.

Our mailbox was off limits to anyone but our dad, who was a career military officer.

And I think growing up, we just thought that was the norm, that only soldiers got the mail.

Because our lives were dictated by rule and order and fear.

And our dad was a very intimidating, towering figure, which is why it really came out of nowhere when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

And within three weeks, we were planning his funeral.

So my four sisters and I were very fortunate enough to be able to go home to Austin, Texas and be at his side and be able to say goodbye, which is a gift.

And everything was just really new and unexpected.

And so too was the revelation when our father told us from the hospice bed, all of his five girls around him, and all of us well into our 30s, that we had a brother.

And he had a son in Germany.

His son was German.

And he had had his son two years before he met my mom.

And she knew about it before they got married.

Of course, we looked right at her.

And she knew, but she, like him, had always kept it a secret.

And so all I could think of, you know, we had always wanted a brother growing up.

And my dad would be made fun of by his army buddies.

And I would say, oh, Pat, you can only shoot pink.

Look at all your girls.