Stephen’s Story

Did you know that they don’t allow eulogies anymore? Father Aidan did us proud though, and even though he explained we couldn’t read the letter we wrote him, he was very respectful and included large parts of it in his homely. But I will publish it here so that family and friends can read what we would’ve said to our little brother 🕊️

✨

Dear Stephen,

We don’t quite know how to write this, because there are no words big enough to hold the devastation of losing you. Our hearts are broken in ways we didn’t know were possible. Life feels unbearably quiet without your voice, your laugh, your presence. Writing to you this way feels strange, because we just always assumed you’d be there, part of our trio.

We grew up clinging to each other, surviving together when childhood wasn’t kind. What we lacked elsewhere, we made up for in each other. We protected one another fiercely, instinctively, because that’s what siblings do when love becomes survival. You were never just our brother — you were our shared life line.

You were a typical wee boy, always up to no good, always testing boundaries, always keeping us on our toes. Thank god from early on, it was clear you had your calling because your singing and dance moves were questionable. The trades suited you — your hands were made for graft, and you became such a talented, determined painter and decorator. You took pride in your work, and it showed. You always had that drive in you, even when life felt heavier than it should have.

You were also wonderfully, frustratingly you. A devoted lover of beige food, addicted to mayonnaise — as if it were its own food group. Once upon a time you loved peas, and somehow managed to eliminate them entirely from your diet too, we don’t think any other fruit or veg touched your lips unless it was in the shape of a haribo. Those small, silly things feel enormous now. We would give anything to roll our eyes at you just one more time.

You had a heart of gold, Stephen. You could talk the pants off anyone, make friends anywhere, and you would help anyone who needed it without a second thought. We just wish — and this breaks us to say — that you had shown yourself the same kindness, patience, and dedication you gave so freely to others.

Your proudest achievement in life was Conan and Milah. There is no doubt about that. They were your world, your joy, your light. You were so proud of the little people they are becoming, and watching them grow meant everything to you. Being part of their lives, even for the time you had, mattered more to you than anything else ever could.

You weren’t perfect. You knew your mistakes, but just like we talked about during many phone calls, perfection doesn’t exist — and honestly, who would want a perfect brother anyway? That would be pretty boring. You kept us on our toes, you challenged us, you made life louder, messier, and fuller. And we wouldn’t change that for the world.

You faced major obstacles . You struggled. But every single day was a new chance for you to try to be better, to do better. And it’s so important that you know this — regardless of the past, mistakes that were made— you were and are deeply loved. By us. By many. And your character, your spirit, your heart will live on in Conan, Milah and your nephews. We see you in them.

Since your accident, you write in your journal, glad to have woken up today, try to be a better person. Today you are waking up somewhere different, free of pain and suffering. Now you’re our guardian angel. Watching over us alongside mummy. We need you to guide us and help us learn how to cope with this emptiness you’ve left behind, to somehow continue living while carrying this pain and the weight of your absence. We don’t know how yet — but maybe, with you beside us in a different way, we’ll figure it out.

It will always be us 3.

Forever your sisters,
Martine & Danielle