Whenever my brother visits I dread this day. The day he goes home.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate saying goodbye to him.
I. Hate. It.
For just over a week he has been "home" and it's been so amazing. We've had busy days out, the boys are exhausted but have had so much fun with their Uncle. They truly adore him and their faces light up as soon as they see him or even hear his name.
We have always been close, and friends, and I love that we can go out and spend the day together. We'll take the boys to the zoo, to the park, to soft play, and we all have fun.
I'm proud to be seen with him. I am happy and relaxed in his company.
I am able to forget the miles that keep us apart when he is at his new home in Somerset.
Although I find that, in my head and maybe openly towards him, I am quite mothering and a bit protective. I want to know where he is, if he is ok, who he is out with, who he has seen, if he's still talking to X, Y or Z.
In a perfect world I would know all of these things. And I would be happy.
But there are things you can change and things that you can't. I can't change where he lives. As much as I want to.
But I can change my feelings and finally learn to accept that it's not a year out. He's not there temporarily. It could be forever.
As much as that breaks my heart.
A week is never quick enough.
And I already want to count down until his next visit. Whenever that may be.
The best brother.
My best friend.