I felt your absence, even before I knew. You would have been my big brother, and I your little brother. I had wanted a big brother, because I was alone. And then she told me.
She was young, and afraid. I don’t fault her for that, or for any of it. But she said that when I came along, a few years later, she knew it was no longer an option. She’d done that once, and regretted it.
So you died, and I lived. If I had been the first, it would have been me. You saved my life by your death. I won’t thank you, since you had no choice. Neither did I, so I won’t apologize. This is what we were given, and no one knew or cared what it would mean.
But you died, and that was real. And she told me, but then it was a secret, not to be spoken of. You died, but there was no coffin, no grave, no funeral. No recognition of a death; we just pretended you’d never existed. But I knew, and I mourned. I mourned for you in secret, in darkness, but in the light I pretended.
I love you.