I’m not surprised when I wake up with a headache brewing behind my eyes. Both my mind and my body know what date it is and what awaits me today. I could skip it, of course, but that’s only an option in theory. The reality is that I have to be there, like I have been there for every year on this date for the last twenty-something years. The first few years, it wasn’t my choice, obviously, but even as I grew older, I always understood that this one commitment was non-negotiable.

I skip breakfast because my stomach doesn’t feel like it can handle food right now, and I’m in my car for the drive south right after the worst of the morning rush. I mean, this is LA, so it’s not like traffic ever gets doable, but it’s the difference between being stuck for two hours on the freeway or only an hour.

It’s ten to noon when I drive up my parents’ driveway. My headache has developed into a full-blown thing now, and I pop another ibuprofen before I exit the car. I really should have eaten something, as that shit will eat through your stomach liner on an empty stomach, but the thought of food makes me nauseous, so I’ll take my chances.

I check myself in my side mirror to make sure my light blue tie is straight and brush a bit of lint off the jacket of my dark blue suit. If only my Ballsy Boys could see me now, their fuckboy Brewer all dressed up in a suit. They’d laugh their asses off.

As always, I ring the doorbell. I still have a key, somewhere, but I would never use it. That required a degree of familiarity that’s not present with my family.

My dad opens the door. “Micah,” he says, extending his hand.

“Hi, Dad.”

“We’re glad you could make it. How was traffic?”

“The usual, not too bad.”

As soon as my dad closes the front door behind me, my mother walks in from the kitchen. “Hello, Micah,” she says, angling her head toward me so I can kiss her cheek. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Mom, thanks.”

“We might as well go, Howard,” she tells my dad. “There’s little sense in hanging around here.”

My dad nods, and minutes later, we’re out the door. The drive to the church is done in near silence, with only perfunctory comments about the weather—they’re expecting rain later this week, which is a newsworthy event in LA—a new development they’re building adjacent to the neighborhood my parents live in, and sports. How about them Dodgers, huh?

The priest is the same man who’s performed this private mass for the last eight years, and he has the solemn look down pat. He gives us a moment to find a seat on the cold, hard wooden bench and then starts his yearly ritual of lamenting my brother’s passing. He didn’t know him as he only started working for this parish when I was in my teens, but he knows the drill. We all do, me included.

I say all the expected words, make all the appropriate gestures at the right time, and manage to keep my face in the required setting. Solemn. Pensive. Reflective. Three words that no one would ever use to describe me.

It only takes fifteen minutes or so before we’re done. Done with the mass, that is. Of course, we have the next part of the program to attend.

It’s a short drive from the church to the cemetery, and my mother clutches the bouquet of white lilies in the car, her eyes hiding behind dark sunglasses. I don’t need to see them to know what they look like. I see them in the mirror every day, minus the ever-present sadness, that is.

My brother’s grave is pristine, as always. No wonder, since my mother still visits every Sunday, like clockwork. I get chills like I always do when I see my own date of birth on the headstone.

Dean Michael Evans. Precious son and brother. An angel in God’s arms.

I don’t remember him, of course, though there are plenty of pictures of the two of us. But even in the pictures, you can see who the healthy one was. I’m the one with the sun-kissed skin, the big smile, the energy that radiates off the photo.

Dean’s the pale one with the bags under his eyes, the sickly-looking kid with only a ghost of a smile on his blueish lips. And that’s before the pictures of him lying in that hospital bed, with tubes and cords and machines attached to him.

He died days before our sixth birthday of a congenital heart defect that even four surgeries couldn’t fix. Identical twins, except for that minor detail of his heart not functioning. He died, I lived, and there’s not a day that goes by that I wonder what my life would have looked like had he survived.

“He would’ve turned twenty-four,” my mom whispers, her voice constricted with emotion. My father’s hand reaches out to cover hers, a gesture I’ve seen him make so many times it has to be pure muscle memory for him. “I miss him so much.”

After a beat of staring at the headstone, they both look up at me, awaiting my response. But what the fuck am I supposed to say? Yes, Mother, I know he would’ve turned twenty-four in five days, because guess what, it’s my birthday too. Somehow, I don’t think it would go over well. And neither would telling them that, no, I don’t really miss my brother because A, I can’t remember him, and B, you guys miss him enough for all of us.

Instead, I sigh and say, “I know, Mom.”

It’s all I can offer, since nothing I say or do will ever make up for what they lost.

After a few minutes, my mom rises from her kneeling position, aided by my father. “We’ll give you a few minutes with your brother.”

This, too, is part of what’s expected of me. My mother holds complete conversations with Dean, or rather, with his headstone. Sometimes she talks to him as if he’s still a little boy, other times she addresses him as the adult he would be now. As a kid, it would freak me the fuck out when my mother dragged me here every Sunday after mass. I had no desire whatsoever to talk to my dead brother, but alas, that did not count.

I know the drill, so as my parents retreat to a respectful distance, I lower myself on the ground after carefully checking for bird poop. I do not want to ruin this gorgeous Hugo Boss I got a few weeks back.

I bow my head a little and fold my arms across my face so my parents can’t see whether I’m speaking or not. How long will we be doing this? It’s been eighteen years since he died, and while I completely understand the loss will always be there, this yearly ritual has gotten so...empty. All of it is empty. Hell, sitting here pretending to talk to him is an empty gesture.

I’m not an atheist, which is probably surprising considering I do gay porn. I guess my Catholic upbringing stuck enough with me that I can’t dismiss the possibility of God’s existence out of hand. So, I don’t know if there’s a heaven, but if there is, I’m sure there would’ve been a spot for a cute little boy with gorgeous chocolate eyes.

I sit quietly for a few minutes, a fine sweat breaking out on my back in the sweltering sun. When I think it’s been long enough, I rise to my feet and say the only words I ever speak to my brother each year. “I’m sorry I lived.”