After You

Jacob

Hey Alfie,

So, it's our birthday coming up. Well, my birthday. It feels so weird to say that. Do you know, I don't think I've ever said "my birthday" before? It's always been "our birthday". No-one's ever said "Jacob's birthday", it's always been "the twins' birthday". For seventeen years I would have given anything for someone to say "It's Jacob's birthday".

Some families do separate cakes for twins. Some parents even do separate days, although we probably would have argued about who got the actual day. We were lucky if we got separate presents from anyone other than our parents, let's face it. Well, our parents and Jess. She was the only one who bothered to work out that we had separate interests. Everyone else either disappointed me with dinosaur-themed presents, or disappointed you with space-themed presents.

Seventeen years of consistently disappointing birthdays. I feel like that should be the tagline for twins. Imagine the congratulations cards? "It's twins! Wishing you a happy lifetime of disappointing birthdays and no individuality!".

For all the time I spent wishing we had separate birthdays, I always thought our eighteenth would be one we celebrated together. Dad would take us aside and tell us that we're men now, and then take us to the pub for our first legal pint. Mum would shed a little tear at her two little boys, all grown up. There would be a party, with embarrassing pictures of us as kids. Sharing a bubble bath at two, making mud pies at three, both crying at our disappointing fourth birthday party.

I wonder if it's harder for everyone else because you were a twin. If a singleton dies, you don't have a constant reminder of them all of the time. You can pretend they've nipped out to the shops or gone on holiday or something. When a twin dies, having the other twin around must be like having pictures of the dead one plastered on every wall and surface; a constant reminder of what you've lost.

If they think they've got it bad, try being me. I can't even look in the mirror without seeing you.

There won't be any big party this year, and I don't want any presents. I don't want to open something disappointing and have no-one to grin knowingly at. I don't want to receive cards addressed to "Jacob", not after years of cards saying "Alfie and Jacob" or "The Twins". I don't want to spend all day listening to my parents cry about how you should be opening cards; you should be eating cake; you should be having the "now you're a man" talk too.

Can you imagine if they sang Happy Birthday? I don't think I could cope with the sob-fest.

After years of wishing for just one birthday to call my own, I think I'd give anything for just one more to call ours.

J