We Were Four

It caught me off guard.

A simple question from a new friend—“Do you have any siblings?”

For Pete’s sake, I’ve answered it a hundred times in my life, without pause.

But this time, I hesitated, I paused, I was scared to answer honestly.

And, I didn’t want to hear the words come out of my mouth.

We were four.

Were.

Damn it. That word.

A noisy, chaotic, bonded crew of four.

We knew each other’s laughs and secrets.

We fought over front seats and cereal boxes.

We covered for each other and rolled our eyes in unison at family dinners.

Four of us.

And now, we are two.

How do you answer that question?

Do I say, “Yes, I have one sibling” ?

Or that I once had three?

It feels all wrong to imply I only have one sister because we are supposed to be four.

I also have a brother, and another sister.

We are supposed to be a noisy, chaotic, bonded crew of four.

Who know each other’s laughs and secrets.

Who fight over front seats and cereal boxes.

Who cover for each other and roll our eyes in unison at family dinners.

Grief is strange like that—it sneaks into the mundane. A casual inquiry from a new

friend becomes a reminder of what’s missing. Of who’s missing. Of what was once my

‘normal’.

It’s not just about the number.

Ours was four.

Now it’s not.

The shape of one’s identity shifts when a significant part of their origin story is gone.

The words get all jumbled up inside of you when your number changes.

The uniqueness of the shift to my origin story is that one of our four has literally died

and another one, although physically here, has left us so it feels as if she has died.

Sometimes…I hate the new number. The accompanying grief can be consuming.

I still hear their voices in my head.

I still feel that we are supposed to be a noisy, chaotic, bonded crew of four.

I still know their laughs and secrets.

I still want to fight over front seats and cereal boxes.

I still want to cover for each other and roll our eyes in unison at family dinners.

I am still their sibling in every way that matters—except the physical.

And I will always be one of four.

---

Olivia Harrell lives in Baldwin, Maryland, with her husband, two young children, and a Bulldog named Lola. She lost her brother, Griffin, to an accidental overdose from Fentanyl on September 25, 2023. Her monthly blog examines the twists and turns of grief and healing. Olivia loves to spend time with her family, make sourdough from scratch, and exercise. She is also incredibly thankful for the community of LITT and invites others with a similar loss to participate in LITT’s Sibling Support Group. For more information, click here.