Day: September 7, 2025

• I’m 12 years younger than my brother, and we’ve never been super close.
• After the death of both of our parents, he became more of a father figure than a sibling.
• We have different perspectives on life, but we do have some things in common.

My brother has always been there for me, yet we have never played much, hung out for too long, or fought like brothers do. Being a dozen years older, he’s largely navigated his own way in life, and we’ve never been that close, at least not like typical siblings.

We lost our mother when I was 1, and we lost our father 14 years later. My brother’s role in my life after the death of our parents became more like that of a guardian and father figure than a brother. It happened naturally, and we’ve never questioned or discussed it.

My brother became like a third father to me

I lived with a foster family after our mother died and saw my father on weekends. My brother had to mature quickly; he lived with my father for a few years before mostly fending for himself from the age of 18. We didn’t see each other much when I was young, though I do have some fond memories of him from that time. He drove me around in his little car. We played darts and football. He bought me ice cream and fussed over me on birthdays.

After the death of our father, my brother became, in effect, a third father. I visited him and his partner on weekends, just like I’d done with my father. I stayed with him during university holidays, and when I finished studying, he picked me up with all my worldly belongings and welcomed me into his home. Living with my brother gave me a base from which to work, save, and see the world over the next six years, and I’m so thankful for that.

My brother, like a good parent, is generous. He insists on paying for everything when I visit. He consistently offers valuable advice, and I view him as a reliable sounding board on important topics like finances and retirement plans.

We rarely argue, but we also rarely joke around

The two of us rarely argue. We don’t talk about growing up in different households or past upheavals. Though we have differing perspectives on life and are 12 years apart, it’s something that exists in the background.

We do have things in common, like the enjoyment of sport and travel. However, while I traveled on a budget in my 20s and 30s, my brother had the money to travel more luxuriously. We’ve simply done things differently in life, and my brother and I don’t have a strong emotional bond. Again, the age gap feels too wide, and upbringings are different.

Our conversations are usually serious and polite. There are no creative arguments and heated disagreements. When we talk, we are respectful and don’t delve into feelings. Our dynamic has always felt closer to a father-son relationship in that way.

We don’t laugh much, cry, or show our emotions around each other. We’ve also never held grudges or sulked around each other, like siblings often do. I wish my brother’s playful side would come out more often. He has his moments, but his longtime maturity has made for a solemn outlook. I sometimes think having a cheeky brother with a naughty streak might be nice because we would then have similar traits.

My brother has always been an adult in my eyes. I’ve never asked him how he views our relationship, but maybe I should. He has always taken on that guardian mantle, and for aspects of that, I am grateful.

Our different childhoods have shaped our relationship now

I feel fortunate to have grown up with other kids, unlike my brother, who had a more solitary experience at home. He missed out on the experience of growing up with children his age in the house and was forced to become independent early.

My brother has also never had children of his own, and although he tried to bond with my daughter when she was younger, he found it hard. He has no connection with younger people and is firmly entrenched in the adult world.

I feel guilty that I have a closer relationship with my foster siblings than with my brother, but that is the way relationships have developed.

We can’t change the cards we’ve been dealt in life, but I wish my relationship with my brother felt more like that of siblings rather than parent and child.

Israel again called on Hamas to surrender on Sunday, as the military carried out strikes on Gaza’s largest urban centre where hundreds of thousands of Palestinians are seeking shelter.

Illinois Governor slams Trump over social media post as demonstrations erupt in Chicago and Washington DC over federal crackdown.

Freeze warnings and frost advisories spanned parts of the Upper Midwest on Sunday morning.

South Korea says it has reached a deal with the US on the release of South Korean workers – South Korea says it has reached a deal with the U.S. on the release of South Korean workers detained at a Hyundai plant in Georgia

• My son’s ADHD diagnosis has had a profound impact on our lives.
• I was initially overwhelmed by the label, but eventually learned to appreciate his unique qualities.
• Leaning into his needs has helped me become a more caring person.

When the doctor finally said the words, “Your son has ADHD,” I felt like the air had been knocked out of me.

I held it together in the doctor’s office, but the moment I got into the car, I broke down. I sat there crying, staring at the steering wheel, wondering what this meant for him — and for me.

Fear, guilt, and anxiety came crashing in all at once. I kept asking myself, if I had missed something. Did I fail him? How was I ever going to be the kind of mother he needed?

All I could see were the struggles

I’d always known my son was different. His energy was — endless. He could run circles around the house long after I was exhausted. Homework was a daily battle; instructions seemed to go in one ear and out the other. At school, teachers told me gently that he had trouble sitting still, trouble staying focused, trouble following along.

At home, I saw the same thing. I’d ask him to put his shoes away, and two minutes later he’d be building a fort instead, the shoes still right in the middle of the hallway. It was exhausting, and I often lost my patience. Still, hearing “ADHD” out loud felt heavier than anything I had imagined. It sounded permanent. It sounded like a life sentence.

In the beginning, all I could see were the struggles. I worried he’d never keep up in school, that other kids would tease him, that teachers would see him as difficult. I even worried about myself, whether I had it in me to parent a child who needed so much more than I felt I could give.

There was more to him than his diagnosis

Slowly, as the months passed, something in me shifted. I started noticing the things I had been too overwhelmed to see before.

His curiosity, for one, was enormous. He wants to know everything. Why the clouds move, how electricity works, what would happen if dogs could talk.

His imagination is endless. A pile of cardboard boxes becomes a rocket ship. A boring rainy day turns into an elaborate game. And his heart, oh, his heart is the biggest part of him. He feels things deeply, he loves hard, and he forgives faster than anyone I know.

That’s when it hit me. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t a problem that needed fixing. His brain just worked differently. The same impulsiveness that made him blurt out thoughts also made him brave enough to try new things. The same forgetfulness that made me want to scream was also tied to the way he lived fully in the moment. And when he found something he loved, he could focus on it with a passion that left me in awe.

I had to adjust my parenting

I had to stop trying to mold him into what I thought he should be and start learning who he really was. I became his advocate, at school, with teachers, even with family who didn’t always understand. I read everything I could about ADHD, asked questions, and leaned into the messy, unpredictable parts of parenting him.

And somewhere in all of this, I started to change, too.

My son has taught me patience, real patience, not just the surface kind. He’s taught me how to slow down, to meet him where he is instead of trying to drag him where I think he should be. He’s taught me presence, because with him, the only way forward is to live in the moment. And he’s taught me that progress matters more than perfection. Some days feel like chaos, but then there are small wins, a homework assignment finished without tears, a calm bedtime, a teacher’s note saying he tried his best. Those wins mean everything.

We’re all growing

Looking back, I realize the diagnosis itself wasn’t the scary part. What terrified me was the unknown, what kind of future he would have, and whether I could be enough for him. But now I see that ADHD isn’t just shaping him, it’s shaping me, too.