After You

Jacob

Dear Alfie,

Christmas was good. Well, good-ish.

Obviously, it was never going to be "good". I think you'd struggle to find any family who'd describe the first Christmas after their kid dies as "good", let's face it. I think it was as good as it could have been. Mum and Dad didn't give each other divorce papers as a present, which is better than I was expecting. Actually, it was very peaceful. We didn't go over the top, but we had a tree. We had presents. Mum set four places at the dinner table instead of three, and I thought we were all going to either break down or kick off at each other.

Instead, Dad lit a candle and put it on the fourth place setting. None of us mentioned it as we ate, but I was glad he did it. In a weird way, it felt like having you with us. If nothing else, it was an acknowledgement that you weren't there. It would have been a thousand times worse if we'd only had three place settings and pretended it was all normal.

We did all the things we used to do at Christmas. We ate chocolate for breakfast, had Christmas songs playing all day (Dad had to press mute when Chris Rea came on, I don't think any of us could have coped with it) and lay on the sofa for hours after dinner watching all the TV specials. It felt deceptively normal. I think I was expecting to feel like a huge chunk of the day was missing, and although it was weird, it didn't feel as momentous as I expected it to.

I wonder if this is what the rest of my life will be like. In every big moment, will I be waiting to feel half-empty? Before you died, on the rare occasion that we did have a "deep conversation", we'd talk about the firsts that we were excited for. The first shared legal drink, the first university party, the first expensive, good-quality cigarette (I'm sorry that we cremated you with an American Spirit, by the way. I tried one and they're disgusting).

Now, life is filled with even more "firsts". It's a different category – it's the "firsts since losing Alfie". We made it through the first birthday since your death. It was difficult, but we got through. Christmas was peaceful, against all expectations. What comes next?

The first Easter without you, where all I'll be able to think about is how Mum and Dad only ever attempted one Easter church service with us, when we were five. The vicar said something to all the kids there about remembering Jesus when we're eating our chocolate eggs, and you pointed up at the effigy of Jesus on the cross and asked, "so is that the Easter bunny, then?". That was bad enough in itself, but then Dad practically wet himself laughing and had to excuse himself from the room. Funnily enough, Mum never tried to take us again.

The first summer without you. You won't be with us at the beach or at the pool or at spontaneous barbecue parties. We won't sit and drink cheap cider in Jess's back garden while her parents are both out at work, hoping the neighbours don't see us and tell Mum, listening to whatever crap music Willow decides to blast through her speakers.

The first exam results day. You died two days before we got our AS Level results, and the immediate assumption everyone jumped to was that you killed yourself because you were certain you'd failed and couldn't face our parents' reaction. I knew that wasn't true; I was sure you'd ace everything, and our parents would never have been disappointed anyway. All they would have done is tell you to try harder next time, and get in a tutor or something. They're discussing doing that for me. My grades are not good, to say the least.

Anyway, it was a stupid theory. You got four As, as predicted, with full marks in English Literature. That was when everyone changed tack, talking about how tragic it was that someone with so much going for them and such a bright future ahead, had thrown it all away. All the wasted potential. I could practically hear the question on everyone's mind - "Why didn't you kill yourself, Jacob? You're the idiot twin. You're the one who'd never make it into Oxford. Why didn't you do it?".

A few weeks ago, I would have blamed you for that, as though it were your fault that we're surrounded by idiots. Your death wouldn't have been any less tragic if you were a C-grade student, or even an F-grade student, or if you'd dropped out of sixth form. The grief isn't unbearable because you're clever, it's unbearable because you're my twin brother and half of me is missing and I still can't figure out why the fuck you'd want to kill yourself.

I can hear Big Ben ringing on the TV downstairs. I can't say I'm sad to see the back of this year, but I wouldn't say I'm looking forwards to next year either.

The first new year without you.

Please tell me that these firsts are going to get easier.

Jacob