The Deathbed Call From a Brother I Never Met

I spent decades searching for the half brothers I’d learned about as a child. One welcomed me instantly. The other contacted me only at the very end

MJ Jacobsen,

AARP

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Published March 25, 2026

a hand holds an image of two young boys. in the background, a smartphone rings and shows the name chris on the screen

Monica Garwood

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My father showed me a black-and-white photograph of two smiling boys shortly before he died of heart disease. I was 7 years old and an only child — or so I thought.

“This is Christian,” Dad said, pointing at the taller boy. “And that,” he said, indicating the other, “is John. They’re your brothers. They don’t live nearby, but I wanted you to know about them.”

Dad was sitting in his easy chair and I was sitting next to him on a leather hassock when he delivered the shocking news. Why hadn’t he told me about my brothers during our lazy days together while Mom worked? He was my primary caretaker; we were buddies! Dad had been living with multiple sclerosis for nearly 20 years and walked with crutches. On days when he needed something upstairs, I would proudly fetch it.

Growing up, I wondered about my half brothers regularly and wished my father were alive to tell me about them. The older I got, the more questions I had. Mom had no answers and at times seemed aggravated by my queries. Again and again, she said she didn’t know how to reach them.

I vowed to find them someday.

Nowadays, you can Google a name and learn where someone lives or works. It wasn’t always so easy.

When I went to college in 1972, I started with the phone book and called every Christian and John Jacobsen in the White Pages; none of them were my lost brothers. It became a ritual when I traveled to new places: Chicago, Nashville, Los Angeles. Marriage, kids and a career sidelined my search, but I never forgot.

Little did I know that other family members were tracing family roots online, with better results. A cousin somehow connected with my brother John’s daughter-in-law, and one day I got an email: “My brother, Chris, and I are your half brothers. I know this is bizarre, but I would like to meet you to talk about our father. We never knew you existed.”

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During our first phone call, which lasted more than an hour, the truth began to unravel. Dad’s first wife, unable or unwilling to cope with his multiple sclerosis, moved out with the boys, ultimately taking them to Florida for a new life. When they asked where he was, she said he’d died.

Decades later, they learned the truth: that their father had lived another 10 years after they’d moved to Florida, and got married again and had me. With their mother now dead, there was no one to confront with their anger and confusion.

When I hung up the phone, my husband, adult daughters and I each got Facebook friend requests from John, his wife, and their sons and daughters-in-law, and our histories began to unfold. John and I quickly agreed that the failings of our now deceased parents were of no concern to us. We’d found each other and had to make up for lost time.

We set a weekend to meet at John’s home in Memphis, Tennessee. He was waiting in his driveway to welcome me. I decided immediately that we had the same nose. He had the same pale blue eyes as my aunt and cousin.

I had hoped our older brother, Christian, would also come to Memphis that weekend. But John said it would take some convincing.

Although author MJ Jacobsen has met and maintains an active connection with half brother John Elkington (right), she never met her other brother, Christian Elkington (left), before his death in 2019.

Courtesy MJ Jacobsen

Over the years, I sent chatty emails and letters to Chris. Chris sent silence.

I shared my frustration with John, feeling hurt and angry. But I still harbored the fleeting hope that I’d hear from Chris.

Then one day, I did.

“Mary Jeanne, I regret not speaking with you through the years,” the email read. “If you would indulge me with a few moments of your time, I would appreciate it.” I called him immediately.

John had told me Chris had cancer, and I knew he was in hospice care. “Thank you for talking to me,” he said. “This is a Hail Mary pass.”

Chris seemed tired and was obviously medicated during our phone conversation. He said he loved our father, also named John, and remembered him fondly. Dad had been a florist, and Chris recalled the flower shop. He remembered that our father was creative and had a great sense of style. “I remember that, too,” I said.

Chris began slurring his words, and his wife got on the phone to say that he needed to take more medicine. She promised they’d call back when he felt better. Christian died before we could have a second conversation.

At the funeral, John introduced me to Christian’s wife, who told me it gave him solace to talk with me at the end of his life. I was glad to comfort a dying man but was left with the heartbreaking question: Why hadn’t he wanted to meet me? Would it have been painful for him, a reminder of the father he’d loved and lost?

a man and woman, sitting in side by side chairs

MJ regularly meets up with her brother John.

Courtesy MJ Jacobsen

I wonder if everyone has a deathbed checklist. I believe my father checked off an item on his when he told me about my brothers and showed me the photograph. I believe my brother Chris had one when he reached out to me as he was dying.

I know what’s on my final checklist: sharing birthdays, holidays and family dinners with the delightful brother who wanted to know me. When we talk on the phone, John always says “love you” before hanging up, which makes me smile.

“Love you, too,” I say back.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

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