Anton or Antoine

Part I, Today's Thursday

I'm Anton but if you're feeling pretentious like my parents, you can call me Antoine –

ann-t-wh-on.

My Mom is so obsessed with everything French that she decided to give me such a name. My Dad, at first, didn't like it but later on, just like with all things they do together, just went with it. Like when you know you're going to lose in the end anyway, might as well just raise the white flag. That's my Dad, never a contender. No la résistance.

I was adopted when I was just 18 months old, my Mom was 31, my Dad 28. They were married just shy of three years at that time. They met in law school. Long story. This is about me so I can't be bothered to elaborate.

I know I know, they were too young a couple to go with adoption. They had time to procreate and my Mom's biological time bomb still had a long way to go. But no. She was diagnosed with Primary Ovarian Insufficiency which meant that it'll be a perpetual hurdle for her to conceive. Adoption, they thought, was the most pragmatic way to move forward. And besides, the only thing they're after was to take care of another living soul. So I came into the equation, Ann-t-wh-on.

I grew up pescatarian. Why? I do not know. It's as if was born with an innate liking to fish and veggies. It's congenital I presume. Not that I am complaining. It's healthy. The only thing not healthy with my diet is the amount of butter my Mom likes to put whenever she dishes out baked salmon atop a bowl of steaming hot white rice, my favourite. Her motto, "the butter, the better" because again, French style of cooking.

Here's the fun part, my Mom, miraculously got pregnant at the age of 41. They were not even trying. It just happened as if the Almighty has decided to finally lift the curse on them as a reward for being good Samaritans. Both my parents are lawyers who do pro-bono cases on the side. Maybe that's why.

I was 11 years old when my baby brother came into the picture. He's a menopausal baby, obviously. His name, drum roll please... José - ho-sey. My Dad got the say this time around. He got inspired by all the Latin TV series he's been watching lately.

Jealousy became the ambient feeling our household had from the moment he was brought home from the hospital. The undivided attention I used to get was slashed to a quarter. Three fourths now goes to him. The twice a week baked salmon became once a week and later on, once a month. I despised him.

It was José's second birthday when he spoke his first official word. I was sitting on the stairs looking from afar at the people congregating around him singing happy birthday. I was full of angst and didn't want to add colour to the festivity. Before he blew the candle, actually it was my Mom who did it eventually, he blurted my name... ann-t-wh-on.

It melted my heart. We were inseparable ever since.

To tell you frankly, I was not entirely sure it was my name that came out of his mouth that time. Maybe, he was just blubbering random baby sounds. I did not care.

We were inseparable to a fault. My mom thought that it'd be a good idea to invite over some playmates that I can mingle with. To expand my network of some sort and leave José alone. It did not work. I prefer my baby brother.

We did everything together and I've witnessed all his infantile milestones. I was there when he first bumped his forehead on the floor. The first time his milk tooth appeared. Weirdly, it was the lower cuspid. He looked like a pirate who'd lost his teeth after months or years in the sea without a proper toothbrush.

José developed a severe case of asthma by the time he turned three. It might have been hereditary as I consider my parents progressive and practical. They made sure that José gets exposed to allergens so the advent of his condition was completely odd.

It was so severe that he had to be rushed to the hospital twice last month. He has been cordoned off at the masters bedroom with Mom and Dad for the time being until he's stable enough to play in the living room. His interactions with anyone, that includes me, have also been limited to pinpoint what's causing all these.

I was starting to miss him.

Two weeks have passed and he still hasn't been allowed to leave the masters. Mom and Dad were acting weird as well. They've been having this serious conversation on the kitchen counter. One evening, I saw Mom shed a tear during their 30-minute one-on-one session. She phoned someone crying. Dad was across her on the counter. It did not register to me what she was telling the other person on the line. What I am certain of was that she's devastated.

It was Tuesday when this happened. Today's Thursday.

My Mom's contemporary from work came for a visit. That's a surprise. She's carrying this weird thing that I have never laid my eyes on ever. It's like a box made with plastic and metal with a handle on top.

Dad lifted me up from the sofa. Kissed me on the cheek then put me inside this alien box. Mom was standing just outside the masters carrying José. She can't look at me. Her face was red. José was oblivious, not a single clue.

I am 13 years old now. That's 72 in cat years. I am being sent for adoption, again. My parents were left with no choice. The longer I stay, the more José suffers.

He's allergic to me. Meow.

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