Long story short, my father and his new wife adopted these two boys (both older than me), because their mother was suffering from a disease that made her organs shut down one by one. This was a known thing, and my father and his wife often visited them because my stepmother was best friend with the boys mother. We were sitting in the garden, their father was mowing the lawn. Suddenly he fell, and didn't move. Apparently he had a heart attack, and died instantly. A week later their mother died too, when her heart stopped due to the disease.

My father and my stepmother adopted the two boys. We all three got offered help, but even though I was old enough at the time to knew what had happened, it didn't affect me that much. Probably because I hated my father.

However, sometimes when I think about it now, it creeps me out. I haven't had contact to my father's family (for other reasons though) since 2013, but sometimes it just hits me. I can't even imagine what those two boys, my brothers, went through. It must have been absolutely horrible, and sometimes I blame myself or feel guilty because it didn't affect me.