For the past few years, on January 7th I send a text, or an email, or sometimes both, to someone to say happy birthday.
Every year there is no reply.
And every year I am crushed just a little bit more.
I didn't know it was possible for someone to hate me so much purely for being related to someone else.
I sent emails and pictures of Tricky when he was born and they too, went unanswered. I created new email addresses just in case he has mine blocked and I have even used the contact form on his work's website, to no avail.
When Bobbin was born, I couldn't bring myself to send another email, another picture, because the lack of response kills me a little bit more each time.
Today, as soon as I opened my eyes I started crying. I miss him more on days like today. I miss him more every time Tricky gets a postcard and I remember fondly how he used to send me postcards from all over the world when I was little. They would always be so funny. Once he wrote "I'm writing this slowly because I know you can't read fast yet". I always looked forward to seeing him when he flew home, and when he moved back permanently I thought it was brilliant. I worshipped him.
I've realized that the feelings I have for him now are more akin to mourning than anything else, yet he is still very much alive and works only a suburb away. I drive past his work most days and wonder which car is his. I haven't dared to go in, because as much as I long to see him, I think if he told me to go away to my face that I would crumble and I wouldn't want to compromise his professionalism with my tears.
A few years ago, in one of the many emails I have sent, I included my blog details, just in case he wanted to see how we were going but couldn't bring himself to make contact. I wonder all the time if he has ever looked it up. Seen the pictures, followed the stories, thought nice things about us and smiled.
L, if you are reading this, happy birthday. I miss you, I love you. x