I was about two years old when my brother died, he would of been maybe 6 months old at the time. Being so young, I have no memory of him. We might say those circumstances allowed me to live a “normal” life with minimal pain, after all, how can anyone miss something for which they never had?

But like the words of this page, flowing past you, through you, the facts are inescapable. My brother’s existence, however short, was real. At first I did not understand. Nor did I feel the depth of loss for what could of been. Such decisions, after all, are at the hands of God.

And so with a twist of fate, after many years, my son too has grown up and does not know me. The opportunity to share birthdays, holidays, work days, Father’s day, irreplaceably lost. Instead, my son was fed the dirtiest of lies by his mother to satisfy her own selfish needs, to keep her “baby”.

A supplanted reality, an exchange of possibility. That my son has, in fact, grown up with memories of laughter and sadness, not with his father but behind painted walls. Those walls are not shields, they are colourful masks, manufactured to hide the truth. Meanwhile, every day, I feel a pain and anger which never dilutes.

Unlike the story of my brother, this one ends with a simple and certain truth. A time will come when my son can choose to reunite and start a new chapter in life.