Since my mum died, family photos can be painful to look at. But this one of me and my brother is a reminder we still have each other
M
y only sibling is seven years older than me. That means he has forever been seven years ahead of me in life, sitting somewhere between a willing co-conspirator and knowledgable surrogate parent – protective but fun, and always aware of the secrets of existence I am yet to discover. It was his aside that spoiled the secret identity of Santa Claus; he who laughingly revealed the mechanics of sex; he who gave me my first sip of beer. Yet, when he found out I was sneaking cigarettes from my dad’s stale dinner party supply, he chastised me before either of my parents could, and when my mum was diagnosed with cancer and I was just 15, he was already a 22-year-old medical student, able to speak in a doctor’s shorthand and advocate for her care while my father and I floundered.
Ever since my mum died in 2013, family photos have been a source of bittersweet pain. In the pictures where she is present, I’m reminded of her wide smile, appetite for fun and her loving presence. In the images without her, all I see is her absence – the mum-shaped silhouette where she should be, either because she was outside the frame or because she was no longer alive.
