When I was younger, I always felt like something was missing.
Something was detached from me. There was a part that wasn’t quite right and nothing could fill this mysterious void in my heart.
When my grandfather took me to see my grandmum’s grave for the first time, it was then I realized what it was.
It was on that day, at the age of six, that my grandfather told me about something I guess I had always known.
I had a brother. A twin brother, in fact. My grandfather said he died in the womb shortly before we were born. He told me not to cry though. He said that while we were inside of my mum, that we were very close. He told me we had nine months together as brother and sister, and that when he died, he was not alone.
He had me.
It gives me some comfort, but it is not nearly enough. I think it’s unfair that such a special bond was broken and that I get to live while he doesn’t.
The guilt I feel is not something I can explain in words. I almost always question, daily, ‘Why me?’