Mourning My Only Brother... And then Learning I Had Another All Along
I spent almost a decade learning to be an 'only' after Matthew died. The un-learning is almost as disorienting.
On a September night in 2016, I stayed up late, scouring my email and social media accounts for distractions: upcoming events, good news I'd overlooked, an acceptance of some sort lurking in my spam. One month earlier, I'd announced the sale of my first book ā a coming-of-age memoir about the suicide of my only brother, Matthew, told through the series of cars my family and I drove.
Iād worked on this book for years. Iād written through grief, divorce, depression, and solo parenting two small children. At times, Iād fall into an episode of despair and self-doubt. Who was I to tell my brotherās story? Just me. Matthew Stephensonās kid-sister. Missy, heād called me.
When the book sold, a feeling I didnāt expect overcame me: grief, and fear, over letting go of my brotherās story. When he was alive, we had a relationship, as siblings, that only the two of us understood. He was my brother, my closest DNA match in the universe, anā¦
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