Memoir, or a belated thank-you to my big brother

So I am teaching my students about writing memoirs, and I decided to write one myself while they are writing theirs. Here it is:

When I was in second grade, my brother gave me a special watch for Christmas. It was special because he had moved away the year before to go live with my dad in Texas, and I really missed him.
The watch was so great because it had pictures from my favorite movie, Starwars, on the front, and it was digital, which at the time was new and cool. My brother really knew what I liked, and I was happy he remembered so much about me!
When we returned to school a few weeks later, I wore my watch proudly. I wanted to show my teacher and my friends what a great gift I had gotten from my brother.
That morning at school I showed off my watch to everyone I knew. They all agreed it was a great gift, and I felt special that my brother had picked it out just for me.
As the school day wore on, I pretty much forgot about my watch. In fact, I was an absent-minded boy, and my parents were always nagging me about lost mittens or boots or books. It No matter how many times I got in trouble for losing things, I just couldn't seem to help myself. Well, on this day I just happened to learn a painful lesson about responsibility.
I didn't realize it until I was on the bus on my way home, but when the bus driver asked if he could see my watch, I realized I was no longer wearing it!
Now, I had lost things before. A lot of things. My toys, my clothes, my lunch box... I had lost these things, many times, and though I felt bad about my parents yelling at me about them, I never really felt like it was a big deal. It just didn't matter that much to me.
But this time was different. In my family it was a rule that we write thank-you letters for all the gifts we received, and I had not yet written to my brother. As I sat there on the bus, I began to cry, and not just a little. I cried a lot. I'm not sure if it was because I was getting older, or if it was because I was afraid I'd have to tell the truth, but for the first time in my life I felt horrible about losing something. I didn't realize it then, but what I was feeling was remorse. Remorse is a complicated feeling, like guilt and regret and embarrassment all rolled into one. It sat there in the pit of my stomach making me feel sick all the way home.
When I got home my mom could tell there was something wrong. I wasn't crying anymore, but my eyes were still red and puffy and it was easy to see that I was not ok.
When she asked me what was wrong, I broke down again and started crying as I told her about the watch. Though I could tell by the look on her face that she was annoyed that I had lost yet another thing, she just listened patiently as I wailed on about what a terrible and ungrateful little brother I was and how I didn't deserve to have such a caring older brother.
My mom didn't disagree with me as I sat there verbally beating myself up. When I finally ran out of words she just looked at me and said, "I think you had better write that thank-you letter to your brother."
I knew she was right. I knew that I had to write the letter, and I had to do it soon, before I stopped feeling so awful.
You see, it is a truth that the adults we become are shaped by the choices we make, and I knew then that the choice before me was a huge one.
On the one hand, I could fulfill my duty by writing my brother a letter, saying all the usual things but leaving out everything I was currently thinking and feeling. I was old enough even then to know I wouldn't keep feeling this way forever.
On the other hand, if I didn't tell him about losing the watch then I knew I was not only being a coward, I was also being dishonest. I was learning a lesson about what grown-ups call integrity. I faced a choice about accepting responsibilty for who I was, the bad parts and all, or hiding myself safely away, telling myself that if my brother never knew, then I could just act like it never, ever happened.
I decided to write the truth. Even though I was afraid of hurting his feelings... afraid of what he would think of me. Afraid it might kill kill me to say out-loud the secret feelings inside me.
Today I doubt my brother even remembers the watch, or my letter. But I remember. It was my first decision in a long line of decisions about what kind of person I wanted to become, and each choice since then continues to mold me.