My brother's birthday, the first year without him

Saturday. A drizzle since morning, the kind that does not wet your shirt but makes the road slick.

6:20. I woke before the alarm. My hand groped for the phone out of habit, and on the screen there was one small line from Zalo: "Today is Anh Hai's birthday." Anh Hai, my elder brother, the way our family always called him. It reminded me exactly as it does every year. The only difference is that this year it reminds me of someone I can no longer message.

I turned the notification off. Then back on. Then off.

7:10. I made iced milk coffee with little sugar, the very glass he used to drink. Why I made it, I do not know. Standing in the kitchen I listened to the ice crack in the glass and felt the cold spread across my palm. The first sip was more bitter than I remembered. I stopped at half the glass, not because it tasted bad, but because I felt I was drinking for someone else, and I was not ready.

I allow myself not to be ready. I wrote that down, then washed the glass.

9:30. I went to the market at the head of the alley. The cake shop on the way had its lights on, and in the glass case there sat a chocolate cake. I stopped. My head started racing: what year was he born, when he was in twelfth grade I was only in seventh, so now he would be thirty-six or thirty-seven... I went back and forth for nearly ten minutes in the middle of the walkway, my hand squeezing the plastic bag until my knuckles went white. A motorbike honked behind me and pulled me back.

I breathed out, one long breath. I heard the vegetable seller arguing a price with someone: "Fifteen thousand a bunch, miss, clean greens." I bought two bunches of water spinach, and a small sponge cake from the stall next door. Not the chocolate one.

12:00. Lunch with Má. She had made stuffed bitter melon soup. Anh Hai loved it, and today she cooked it without anyone saying why. The two of us sat eating. The sound of spoons against the bowls was louder than usual.

"Today is Anh Hai's birthday."

"Yes. I remember." Má put another piece of bitter melon in my bowl. "I started cooking this morning."

I said nothing more. Neither did she. But for the first time in months, we sat quietly together and neither of us hurried to change the subject.

15:00. The rain thickened. I sat on the balcony at Má's, the sponge cake on an old ceramic plate. I stuck in a small candle, the only one I could find in the drawer, and lit it. The flame shivered in the damp air. I did not sing. I did not blow it out.

I listened to the rain tapping on the neighbour's tin roof, beat after beat. I once read an article about listening to the sound of falling rain, and this afternoon I tried it, just to have something to do. About five minutes in, I wandered off. My head ran back to the day he held the back of my bicycle while I learned to ride, his voice repeating "pedal, pedal, I won't let go". I stayed lost in there a good while. When I came back the candle had burned down by half, and the rain was still tapping evenly, as though no one had been listening.

I did not blame myself. I listened again, starting from the beat that was falling right then.

19:40. I sat down and wrote three lines about him in my little notebook. I had read an article a long time ago about writing memories to honour someone who has passed without trying it, and tonight I tried.

He used to sing the wrong words to some song whenever he washed his motorbike.

He always teased me for riding slowly.

He called me "teacher" every time I came home late.

When I finished I sat looking at those three lines for a while. They are small, and they are real. I do not know whether to let anyone read them. No need to decide yet.

22:30. Before sleep, the candle was down to a short stub. I blew it out, wishing for nothing.

"Happy birthday, Anh Hai." I said it quietly, just loud enough for me to hear.

A day that was not pretty and did not flow, a day I stood in the middle of a market working out someone's age. But I got through it, one hour at a time.

When to seek professional support

This article is a page from a diary about one birthday, not the right way for everyone. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising next year's birthday will feel lighter.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The days tied to the person who died stretch into many weeks in which it is hard to eat, hard to sleep, hard to breathe
• You cannot manage everyday tasks, even ones you used to do without trouble
• You avoid every anniversary and every relative, to the point your life narrows
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Asking a professional to walk with you does not mean you love the one who died any less, or that you are any less strong. It is just having another pair of hands.

This article was created with AI assistance.