The first time I saw you, you were a smudge on an ultrasound screen. The doctor said you’d probably eaten your twin. Or maybe she didn’t use those words, but that was my takeaway because your mom is somewhat of a weirdo. You didn’t feel real then; you were only a smudge. Nine months ago, when I told you daddy couldn’t live with us anymore, you, along with the younger brother you taught to walk and talk and read, screamed and shook and went so hysterical that I couldn’t do anything but forget my own heavy grief and hold you both in my bed for hours until you eventually fell asleep.