Last week, I found through social media that my brother Rusty's girlfriend, I think

her name was Alicia, had suddenly died over the weekend.

I hadn't spoken with him in months, but I felt like I should say something.

So I texted him with how sorry I was.

I almost added a platitude about if he needed anything, but I was afraid he might take

me up on it, and the idea of interacting with him further made my stomach clench nervously.

The sad thing is that me and Rusty used to be best friends when we were young.

He was four years older than me, so he automatically had that big brother thing going for him.

But beyond that, we just really enjoyed spending time with each other.

We got each other's jokes, had similar interests, and had each other's backs.

All that changed the last time we stayed at Aunt Karen's house.

Karen had inherited the house from my grandparents years before I was born, and for as long as

I could remember, we had always gone there to visit for a week or two every summer.

The house itself was massive with three full stories and a large basement, and it sat

nestled in 200 acres of countryside that was so removed from what we were used to in

the city that it might as well have been a fairy tale land from one of the fantasy books

Rusty loves so much.

For her part, our aunt seemed to love the company, and every visit she always had fun activities

planned, and seemed sad to be left alone in the house when it got time for us to go.

The last time we went to stay at the house, everything was different.

It was early November, and our father had packed us off to stay with Karen in the aftermath

of our mother abandoning us all to leave the state with some guys she had met at work.

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