I never knew what having a sibling felt like. As an only child, I always thought I had it good—my parents’ undivided attention, no one to share toys with, no sibling rivalry. But as I got older, I realized that loneliness can sometimes feel like an unspoken punishment.
One day, while rummaging through an old wooden chest in our attic, I found a small, dust-covered photo album. Curiously flipping through the pages, I stopped at a picture of a baby boy cradled in my mother’s arms. The date on the back was from before I was even born. My heart pounded as I took the album to my mother, demanding answers.
She hesitated but then sighed, her eyes clouding with something I had never seen before—regret. “You had an older brother,” she whispered. “He passed away before you were born. We… we never told you because we didn’t want you to feel like a replacement.”
I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. A brother. Someone who could have been my partner in crime, my best friend, my protector. And I never knew he existed.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering about the life I could have had with him. Would we have fought over stupid things? Would we have had inside jokes only we understood?
I don’t blame my parents for hiding it, but I wish I had known sooner. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have spent my childhood feeling like something was always missing.
