My brothers, each in his own, quiet way, informed me that they would beat the life out of me if I stayed.

That reaction, I wasn’t prepared for.

They wouldn’t elaborate much on why, but I kind of knew. I’d sacrificed parts of my adolescence to helping Mom. Now it was their turn. I’d just have to get used to the sunshine and ocean and palm trees, that’s all.

Over the years, my gratitude for that gesture could only grow. Such times unite people, help us brush aside our differences and sort things out together.

You don’t forget that easily.

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In the early morning gloom of Aug. 23, 1998, the call comes. No need to answer. Last night, as the phone was held up to Mom’s ear, I told her what I needed to tell her, and she had said the same to me.

So there is no surprise. After three years, why would there be? I make some noise going out to the kitchen, in the middle of the night. Wake up my roommates, who are irritated until they find out why.

I slump at the table, in sweat pants and T-shirt, a bottle of Coors Light in my hand. The lights of L.A. twinkle in the distance, and the sea breeze wafts in gently. I take a sip and toast what is, at once, one of the best and worst moments in my life.

It is nearly 2 a.m., and the night won’t be getting much darker.

Rodney Richey, columnist for The Herald Bulletin, can be reached by e-mail at rodney.richey@heraldbulletin.com.