MargenMy brother and I stopped speaking over something silly, the kind you no longer remember but still defend. Ten years without a word, each in his own city, stubborn as our father.
The one thing that never failed was the birthday message. A dry “many happy returns”, unsigned, at eight in the morning. Nothing else. But punctual, year after year, like someone leaving a light on in an empty house in case anybody comes back.
This year it arrived at eight on the dot, as always. I read it smiling. And then I remembered that my brother had died in March, and that I was the one who had gone, in April, to clear out his phone.
He had it scheduled. Ten more messages, one for each of my next ten birthdays, written all at once on some ordinary night. He hadn't managed to tell me he loved me in a whole decade. But he had found a way to tell me ten more times, when he would no longer be there for me to argue about it.