The brother I was closest to became a drug addict.

When we were still kids, my parents came home to him shooting up with a Dora the Explorer belt tied around his arm. He had stolen some money (my parents and robbed my piggy bank) for the experience, so we all sat downstairs trying to figure out what to do while he screamed and threw things in his room.

"We need to call an ambulance. He got a hold of some bad stuff," one sister said.

"No," my mother said, "if we call, he'll go to jail."

"Maybe jail isn't a bad idea. This isn't the first time. He needs help and he's not going to go to rehab on his own," I said.

"That's MY SON. No. He just needs to sleep it off. He's fine," Dad insisted.

And so we listened to my father.

Thirty years later, that brother is still on drugs. Pretty hardcore stuff. Last time I saw him, I had to say goodbye: there's no coming back for him, you know? I know I won't see him again because I live overseas and he's going to overdose. I know he's going to die before the next time I come back to the US.

And there's not a fucking thing I can do to stop it.

My brother's going to die. My childhood hero. The guy that I used to follow around the house, chatting happily to as he played with his Star Wars toys. The one who used to make these awesome blanket forts with me that we'd huddle under, a lit flashlight under his chin as he'd DM a dungeons and dragons game for me and my other brother. The brother that called me into his room so we could figure out how to prank my other siblings with a Ouija board, only to scare ourselves so much in the process that all six of us kids ended up running around the house in the panic, convinced we had been invaded by ghosts.

But the only ghosts now are the brother that used to be and the choices I wish I had made when they still could have made a difference.

I miss the fuck out of my brother. Good on you for taking care of yours.