My brother was four years older than me. We did the usual scrabbling and arguing as kids, but over all, we were friends and allies in a seriously dysfunctional home. How dysfunctional I would not know until we were teenagers, but it was bad.
Matthew left home — with my mother’s help — when he was 17 and I was gone by the same age — in my case, without help.
I loved him and he loved me. He had many problems caused largely by that same horribly dysfunctional childhood we lived, but we understood what had happened and though we did not talk to others, we talked to each other because we were the only ones alive who knew how it had been.
He died 10 years ago of pancreatic cancer and I have never stopped missing him. I haven’t many pictures of him but these are a few.