Hasn't he had enough parties?

…sour grapes, anger, frustration, legalism from the older brother

Right from the start, I felt cross, I felt left out and I felt things were way out of my control.

For a start, there was no discussion about the way life was going to be for me. Oh, no. Father just upped and sold off a portion of his land to provide wonga for my younger brother to go splurging on booze, women, wildness and debauchery. Not a word to me about this.

Perhaps Father could have been sympathetic: ‘Johnny wants his inheritance, and the only way I can manage to give him one third of my property is to sell it off; this will of course mean we shall have to work a lot harder with what we have left to try to survive…’

At least he could have made it clear to me: ‘Your waster brother is being given a fabulous gift, while you shall have to stay to earn your living. Hard luck…’

It was too much to hope that Johnny might have said ‘I’m off! Fancy coming with me for the laugh?’

But no, I stay here. I work hard. I’m labouring with all my might to stay alive, unable to throw parties for my friends (although I am a bit worried about Caleb, who seems over-keen on partying with a goat, which strikes me as slightly perverse) and having to be the ‘good son’.

Every day, I get left alone in the fields, working with the hired men and the servants, because Father avoids any labouring – he just does his thing up on the roof. He really should let it go, realize that Johnny isn’t coming back, and put some effort into our survival.

And then (amazingly) the sad loser does come back, with some sob story about becoming a hired man, while Father, instead of going off the deep end, like he should have done, no, he goes berserk in the opposite direction and gives him full rights and privileges, plus a ring and a coat and shoes and a party (as if he hasn’t had enough parties).

I don’t even get an invite; I come in from working in the distant fields and discover this shindig in full swing and have to ask one of the servants what’s going on. ‘Master Johnny has returned and we’re all invited!’ he says.

So here’s Father, spending money that is effectively my inheritance on a Welcome Home Slap-Up Feed for the whole village to rejoice over this jerk who has done nothing but kick us in the teeth. Makes me mad!

I demand to speak to Dad, who comes out of the revelries to speak to me.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asks. He’s irritated with me for making him leave his guests, I suppose, but this just makes me even more angry.

‘I’ve been here all this time,’ I start explaining (yes, maybe a little loudly, I admit) ‘with little thanks, no opportunities to go a bit wild with my buddies, obeying you… and look what you do when this – ‘ I struggle to find a word which adequately captures way I feel, so settle for one of the first that comes to mind ‘ – this hooligan comes home, having blown all our money on women and wickedness, and you just welcome him in? Where’s the justice in this? He should be punished, disowned, thrown out, left to his own devices, cut off, told to take a long hike. Oh, yes! But instead, you give him gifts we can ill afford and make a great big fuss of him…’ I was completely overstating how I felt, but anger and frustration got the better of me.

Father tried to calm me down. I didn’t hear much of what he said, except that he kept going on about how Johnny was lost but now is found; he was dead but is alive, and how we should be glad.

Pah!