I Blamed Myself for My Brother’s Death

Learning to let go of guilt and live without anguish

My brother’s baby blue casket was the prettiest one at the funeral home, and my parents bought it for him. Everything was light blue. Like my brother’s eyes. None of us could imagine going on without him, and I carried pounds of guilt. I felt the weight of knowledge pressing me down and if anyone saw through me, they saw a truth I could hardly admit. Even to myself.

I was to blame for my brother’s death.

At nineteen, I was a pretty girl. Lots of mascara and kohl under my eyes, shiny pink lip gloss, and big hoop earrings. Tight jeans and lacy tops. I worked a lot, and like most kids that age, barely made enough to survive. Rent, electricity, gas, my car, food. I lived at my parents’ house then, but not for long. They fought constantly. They were apart, then together, then apart.

My brother got fed up and moved to Portland with his best friend’s family. They lived in a three-bedroom house in a poor part of town. I don’t know how long that would have lasted. Warren wanted nothing to do with Dad, and Mom was back with him. Dad promised fidelity and love. Warren knew not to believe it would work.

Before things fell apart, I rented an apartment with my brother, but couldn’t afford it without Mom…