The memories that Facebook and TimeHop serve up each morning can be a strange mix—sometimes they bring an unexpected smile, other times they hit so hard they leave you paralyzed in grief. Today, scrolling through old photos brought a smile. But as I write this, the tears come flooding back.
Back in 2012, we took a family trip to Hawaii. Going through those photos today reminded me just how funny and vibrant our kids were together. They were quite the duo—full of personality, playful, and unfiltered. It also made me reflect on my daughter’s journey, the loss she has endured, and how often siblings are overlooked in the process of grief.
On this trip, the two of them were sitting on a driftwood bench together, posing for a photo—a photo I’m so grateful I insisted upon—when an elderly gentleman approached and remarked what a cute couple they made. Naturally, John was delighted, and Kate? Mortified.
John absolutely adored his sister. To him, she was extraordinary. He was a snuggler, always eager to squeeze her tightly, while she was just at that age where sibling cuddles weren’t exactly “cool.” Whenever strangers approached and didn’t immediately see the family connection, John found it hilarious. He would play along with a twinkle in his eye, proudly introducing his sister like she was his date: “Come to me, darling,” I can almost hear him saying, his grin wide and mischievous.
Kate had this special ability to get him to open up. He followed her to every function, protected her, and just loved being near her. Telling her that he was gone was one of the hardest moments I’ve ever had to face.
Going from a family of four to three is devastating. Kate is now our only living child, carrying the weight and pressure that comes with it. She’s lost the one she could talk to about us, reminisce about their childhood adventures, or share inside jokes about a Blink-182 concert or family trips. She’s lost that deep, unspoken bond—the one that knows exactly what makes you laugh, your quirks, your favorite movie, or that certain foods make you gag.
She’s lost the sibling who would always answer the phone, drop everything, and be there. No siblings remain—just a profound emptiness. Every time she wants to share a meme or a joke she knows he’d love, there is no response, no shared laughter.
People who know her ask how her parents are doing. Those who don’t ask if she has any siblings. They were a perfect, matching pair—and now one is missing from the picture. He will always remain in the background, unseen and unknown to new friends. Kate’s daughter recognizes him in photos, knows his name, but how do we explain to her the sibling she never met? How do we keep him alive in both memory and family story?
How do we convey to little ones what they are missing—the plans he had for them, the lessons he would teach, the joy of family gatherings filled with cousins, laughter, and chaos? Would his kids have shared her sense of humor, giggled at inside jokes, or joined in holiday traditions like reciting lines from Elf? Would they have talked in accents, made silly faces, or even liked eggnog? These are questions that will remain unanswered because it simply wasn’t meant to be.
At this point, all we can do is hold the memories close and be grateful for the years we did have with him. Twenty-four years was never enough—but we know we will see him again. Mourning for his life is already overwhelming; mourning the future we’ll never have with him is unbearable.
Remember the siblings left behind—they carry a double grief. They mourn their brother, their parents as they were, and the lifelong friend they lost.
If you have all your children, you are beyond blessed. Truly, you have everything.
