When I was a young boy, I heard whispered rumors my parents had a child out of wedlock. I had no idea what kind of lock it was. I didn't even know what P.G. or preggers meant. Whatever it meant, adults spoke about it in hushed terms and completely shut up if I walked into the room. As I grew older, I began to suspect my parent's Tijuana Wedding certificate had something to do with it.

The picture slowly came into focus when my parents threatened to send me to an orphanage when I acted up. What's an orphanage I wondered? I figured it must be a bad place because of the ugly face with which they threatened me.

I tried to toe the line. I really did, but I liked firecrackers, M-80's, B.B. guns, and Mad magazine. And, I had no desire to be sent off to an orphanage, whatever it might be. My co-partner in adolescent mischief, Lirpa, was the son of the owner of our little corner market. The market always smelled rich in fresh produce and ground coffee. I liked it there. We hung out there a lot, sneaking Red-Hots when his father wasn't looking.

One day Lirpa, tired of my asking him what an orphanage was, fronted me out to his father and asked on my behalf. Mr. Loof looked over his glasses and said, "That's where your parents sent your little brother before you were born. You don't want to go there. The next step is the reformatory." I never again heisted Red-Hots since that day.

So, I had a brother. I always wanted a brother, but God gave me two mean sisters and a black lab. I did the best I could and talked to Blacky as if he was my brother. Blacky reciprocated by protecting me like a big brother when my sisters threw dirt clods at me. He never bit them, but he was very good at chasing them into the house as they screamed and struggled to open the screen door.

Time marched on, and I never asked my parents what happened to my brother. My sisters grew up, got married, Blacky died from distemper, and my parents finished their last days in Hospice.

My childhood friend became a DNA specialist at St. Mary's while I burned the midnight oil as a copy editor for the L.A. Free Press. Lirpa's practice grew from criminal forensics into genealogy. More money, he said.

We stayed connected over the years. He was more successful than I, but it didn't really matter much because he was like the brother, I had but never met.

The last time we talked, he called and told me he wanted to come and visit on my birthday. I was a little more than disappointed when my birthday came, and he didn't show or even call. I was worried something might have happened.

And then, this morning, he showed up unannounced with a stranger. We looked at each other for a moment. I glanced at Lirpa, who smiled just as the stranger hugged me and kissed me on the neck.

I hugged back.

We hugged tighter.

Brothers united.

Thanks to Lirpa Loof.