Growing up, my world revolved around my maternal brother, Corral. He wasn’t just my sibling—he was my everything. Since our mother worked the second shift for most of my childhood, it was often just the two of us. My big brother became my protector, my confidant, and my best friend.
To this day, most of my childhood memories are tied to him. In fact, my mother once remarked, “All you remember is him.” She wasn’t wrong. My memories from those early years are few and far between, but they all seem to feature Corral.
On April 14, 1997, my world changed forever. Corral was killed at just 20 years old. I was only 12. In an instant, I became my mother’s only child. It was a devastating shift, one that left me grappling with grief and a profound sense of loneliness.
A few years before Corral’s death, I was “reintroduced” to my paternal brother, Michael.
Michael and I didn’t grow up knowing each other well. Our awareness of one another was fragmented at best, pieced together through whispers and chance encounters. I still recall a conversation we had in early 2020, where we talked about how we first learned of each other. We’d both realized we shared the same father when we heard one another calling him “Daddy.” What a way to discover you have a sibling, right?
Growing up, I don’t remember seeing Michael often. Maybe once a year, usually at a family reunion. I distinctly remember a barbecue at my dad’s house one summer when Michael approached me and asked, “Do you know who I am?” I had asked my stepmother about him earlier, so I replied, “They say you’re my brother.” He laughed, his distinctive chuckle sealing the moment, and that was that. We were officially aware of each other, but it didn’t change much.
After Corral’s death, I struggled deeply with depression. High school was a blur of pain, marked by two admissions to psych wards—once during my freshman year and again as a senior. Somewhere in that haze, I transitioned to living with my father. Looking back, I’m not sure he knew how to handle me. But he tried. One of his attempts to support me was to encourage Michael to spend time with me.
I remember Michael taking me bowling and out to lunch with his then-girlfriend. It was a kind gesture, but even then, we didn’t quite bridge the gap. Our dynamic remained unchanged.
The next significant memory I have of Michael is from a hospital parking lot. We both rushed to Swedish Covenant Hospital after learning our father had suffered a stroke. The prognosis wasn’t good. Standing there in that parking lot, we were both facing the same loss but experiencing it separately. His dad was dying, and my dad was dying. The next day, our father passed away. I don’t recall Michael saying much to me during that time, and I understood. His father had just died.
In the years that followed, Michael and I fell into a routine. We’d talk occasionally on the phone and usually saw each other about once a year. It wasn’t much, but it was what we were used to. Looking back, I realize we didn’t put much effort into building something deeper. Sure, we could blame our dad for not fostering a closer bond between us, but as adults, it was up to us to do better.
I remember when I turned 30, and Michael missed my party. To make up for it, he took me out a week later. We had a great time, and for the first time, I felt like he saw me differently—not just as the little girl his dad would bring around. That could have been the start of a stronger relationship, but again, neither of us followed through.
One moment that stands out to me is a conversation we had in March 2020. We shared things that needed to be said, laying bare our feelings and reflections. It was a step toward understanding each other better, but I wish it had come sooner. I wish we’d had a different upbringing—one that allowed us to create more shared memories. I wish things had been different so that our daughters could have a better relationship today.
As I reflect on these relationships—one with a brother I adored but lost too soon, and another with a brother I barely knew—I see both the pain of what was and the possibility of what could have been.
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