I was raised in a family of three children. The eldest child, David, was our adoptive parents’ only biological child. Our a-parents adopted the middle child, my brother Marc, five years after David was born, and then me two years after that. David died in 2009, our adoptive mother died in 2010, and our adoptive father died in 2014. We discovered the fact of our adoption in 2015 and now, in March of 2021, Marc has died from non-small cell lung cancer at only 57 years old. Now I am the only person alive who lived in the home in which I grew up, and no one but me knows the fullness of our lives or the details of what we learned post-discovery. As I was writing this journal and discovering Marc’s truths along with my own I was careful to keep his story to myself, figuring that it was his to tell if he chose. Now that he is gone I realize that I am the only one who knows his story, and if it is to be told it is mine to tell. I believe I shall, as I am able, because it is a story worth telling. Five years is hardly enough to situate oneself in a new reality, and I grieve for his newfound mother who lost him, found him, then lost him again. But I am profoundly grateful that they had those five years.