My perspective about Bobby shifted profoundly as I began to revisit our shared memories with a new lens—one not clouded by the survival instincts of my younger self. Writing this memoir forced me to pause and reflect on moments I had long buried or dismissed. In unpacking those memories, I began to see patterns, connections, and truths that I hadn’t allowed myself to see before.

For much of my life, I had defaulted to viewing Bobby as “our idiot brother”—a perception born, I think, out of frustration, distance, and a self-protective instinct. He was the one who always seemed to get into trouble, who clashed with our parents, who didn’t follow the rules or “play the game” the way I had learned to. But as I started piecing together our childhood, it dawned on me that Bobby wasn’t just acting out. He was fighting back. In his own way, he was navigating the chaos of our home life, searching for a place to belong, and asserting himself in a world where he was repeatedly made to feel powerless.

The pivotal moment of understanding came as I reflected upon the “Great Pop Heist” and the incident at school when Bobby reported Dad for abuse. I had viewed those events through the lens of how they impacted me—how I felt betrayed, how I panicked, how I tried to survive. But then I stepped back and thought about what they must have meant for him. I thought about the courage it took for him to report Dad, knowing full well the fallout he’d face. I thought about the isolation he must have felt when his cries for help were dismissed—not just by the school and the authorities, but by me, the sister who should have had his back.

I began to see that Bobby likely bore the brunt of both of our parent’s anger after Frank left the house at 16. He became the lightning rod for all that rage, all that dysfunction, and yet, he didn’t have the tools or the support to process it. Bobby wasn’t an “idiot.” He was just a kid doing his best to survive in an environment that set him up to fail. He likely felt like he could do nothing right, no matter how hard he tried, and that sense of futility must have weighed on him deeply.

This realization didn’t come easily. It required me to confront my own biases, my own failures, and my own role in his pain. It’s not easy to admit that I betrayed him in the principal’s office, or that I spent years dismissing his struggles rather than trying to understand them. But the more I’ve reflected, the more compassion I’ve found—not just for Bobby, but for all of us. We were kids, thrown into a chaotic, fractured world, each of us scrambling to survive in our own way.

So now, when I think of Bobby, I no longer see the “idiot brother.” I see a young boy who was brave in ways I didn’t understand at the time, who carried a burden heavier than anyone should have to bear, and who, in his own imperfect way, kept trying to find his place in the world. And that shift in perspective has been one of the most humbling and healing parts of this journey.