I was an only child up to the age of 6, and truth be told, and I remember much of the

time I spent being the only recipient of attention from my family.

I remember that my parents liked to do it on me, almost to an excruciating degree, and

my grandparents did no less of the sorts.

If anything, they did it even more, providing me with more sugary treats, toys and gifts

any kid could only dream to get.

It was entertaining, in the beginning.

Soon enough, however, I realised that it would be fun to have a sibling, someone to share

the glory of being the son or daughter of this family.

I didn't know it at the time, but my parents had trouble conceiving children.

Having me was a risk and a hassle enough as it was, so having another one seemed unlikely.

Yet, it seemed that my prayers were answered, because, not long after I turned 6, my mother

announced that there would be another baby in the family.

There was a grand celebration, and every family member in the vicinity, my aunt and uncle

with my cousin Benedict, my grandparents, some of the relatives I didn't know about, attended

the gathering and gave their congratulations to my parents.

There was cake and balloons and gifts to help repair for the upcoming arrival of my sibling.

I was ecstatic as well, and I could see the tears in my mother's eyes as everything unfolded

around them. At first, I expected them to be tears of pure joy. She was a very emotional person.

However, the longer I looked at her as she tried to dry the tears away, my six-year-old mind could

already deduce that it wasn't look of joy. It was pain that filled her gaze.

The months went by in the blink of an eye, and while my father and I were counting down the

...