Grown up brother

There’s a funny thing about watching someone you love grow up without you. It’s perfect and wonderful - especially if the growing up is going well and the person is happy - but it’s also lonely and sad at times. Lonely because of course it would be ridiculous to admit that you miss certain things, so you keep it bottled up. Sad, because of the missing.
My brother and I grew up sharing a room. Even when we didn’t, we did. Our parents built a divide but it was gappy and thin so I could tell when he put his light on and he could hear me coming in teenage-drunk from the pub.
When I went to university I got the thing I wanted most of all in all the world: my own room. I put my feet up on my desk, smoked a cigarette and thought: this is living. But that night I couldn’t sleep. I missed the sound of my brother yelling and laughing in his sleep. Crazy.
Anyway, who would I admit that to? What sort of weirdo is homesick for her sleep-talking 14 year old brother?
Fast forward 17 years (OH MY GOD I AM SO OLD) and I’m lying here in bed thinking about the fact my brother is having his first birthday in the US this year, with his lovely wife Maddie. I’m thinking how I’m going to miss him, I’m thinking about all the birthdays we spent together, bursting into his teeny room with presents first thing in the morning, mum making the cake the night before. And then I sort of realise that he did a lot of growing up between the day I moved out (and he took my bedroom…) and today. And I’m so proud and so happy that every decision he made somehow led him to Maddie and their life together now. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I was also a bit sad.