Love, Loss and Self-Sabotage: the Silent Deal that Shaped My Life

Happy Valentine's Day. For uplift, read to the end.

The girl is fourteen. She stands at her brother’s bedroom door, trying to hold herself together. He is in there, dying.

For days, she hasn’t seen him. For days, she’s been too scared to open the door. Several times, over several days, she’s stood there. It’s just Pete. She just has to knock.

But he’s dying. She doesn’t think she can hold it together. He needs her to hold it together. Sit beside him, watch telly with him, crack stupid jokes. He doesn’t need her crying, not now. But every time she gets to his door, the tears start. She cries, and she can’t go in.

The last time she saw him, that’s what did it. On the stairs, he looked like a skeleton. Skin over bone. He was gripping the bannister, trying to get himself up two floors to the bathroom. He wanted to do it himself. Didn’t want help. Didn’t want to shit in a bedpan.

But the cancer had wasted his muscles, those muscles he built as a rugby play…